THE  TRACKS 
WE  TREAD 


G.B.  LANCASTER 


; 


UL 


A 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 


The  Tracks  We  Tread 

BY 

G.  B.  LANCASTER 

Author  of  "Sons  o'  Men"  and  "The  Spur" 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY.  PAGE  *  COMPANY 
PUBLISHED.  SEPTEMBER  1907 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

INCLUDING  THAT  OP  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


GLOSSARY  OF  NEW  ZEALAND 
TERMS 

Biddy-bid — a  burr. 

Brumbies — wild  horses. 

Keas — meat-eating  mountain  parrot. 

Koradi-stick — blossom  stalk  of  flax. 

Kowhai — timber  tree 

Lawyer — trailing  thorny  vine.     (" Wait-a-bit.") 

Makutu — a  wizard's  curse. 

Manuka — small  scrubby  tree.     (Scrub.) 

Matai — black  pine. 

Matakuri — a  thorny  bush. 

Mic-a-mic — scrub . 

Moko-moko — bell-bird. 

Mopok — native  owl. 

Musterer's  hut — shepherd's  out-station. 

Mutton-bird — species  of  petrel. 

Nigger-head  swamp — loose  tussock  growing  on  steins  in 
swamp. 

Pakeha — white  man. 

Papa — soft  blue  slaty  rock. 

Raupo — bull-rush. 

Rimu — Timber  tree.     (Red  pine.) 

Tawhina — resinous  shrub. 

Tiki — a  charm  carved  by  Maori  in  shape  of  a  grotesque 
man. 

Tohunga — Maori  wizard. 

Toi-toi — native  pampas  grass. 

Totara — very  large  tree. 

Tussock — rough  bunch-grass,  characteristic  of  New  Zea- 
land. 

Tutu — poisonous  plant. 

Whanae — slender  flowering  tree. 

Whare — hut. 

Wild  Irishman — thorny  bush.  (Matakuri.) 


1482010 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 


CHAPTER  I 

ROUND  the  New  Zealand  coast-lines  lie  the 
towns,  where  men  talk  with  their  kind  from 
over-seas,  and  put  their  fingers,  eagerly  and 
very  ignorantly,  on  the  throb  of  the  great 
world's  pulse.  Up  the  New  Zealand  mid-line 
— sheer  into  her  vivid  young  heart — lie  the 
townships  where  draw  together  the  men  she 
breeds  and  holds;  men  whom  the  Salvation 
Army  lassies  pray  for  on  the  dusty  street 
corners,  and  who  go  away  many  times  to  end- 
ings unchronicled ;  men  who  love,  who  con? 
quer  and  serve,  on  the  downs,  the  harsh  moun- 
tains, the  unhandled  plains,  until  they  make 
touch  with  the  Men  of  To-Morrow  upon  her 
shores. 

Here  they  too  feel  the  world's  pulse  for  a 
week,  a  year.  Then  the  flutter  and  the  drum- 
beat sicken  them,  and  their  feet  ache  for  the 
spring  of  the  tussock  again.  So  the  saddle 
takes  them  back,  and  the  pick,  and  the  call  of 
the  sheep,  and  the  tin-roofed  townships,  whith- 
er all  roads  set  as  wheel-spokes  set  to  the  hub. 

i 


2        THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

The  roads  round  Argyle  in  Otago  South 
slept,  in  their  dust  or  their  mud,  six  nights  in 
the  week.  On  Saturdays  the  boys  from  the 
run  came  in  to  distract  Murray,  who  was  police 
officer  for  thirty  square  miles  of  district,  and 
to  turn  the  five  hotels  inside  out,  putting  them 
together  again  in  the  dawn-fog. 

"Scannell's  lot"  held  the  foremost  reputa- 
tion, from  Binnie  away  north  to  the  Shark's 
Tooth,  and  beyond  it.  For  Mains  was  a  cat- 
tle station  primarily,  and  Scannell  was  merci- 
less to  shirkers.  And  so,  without  any  excep- 
tion, were  Scannell's  men. 

It  was  on  a  wet  Thursday  in  August  that 
Mackerrow  broke  his  leg  and  was  sent  to  the 
hospital  fifty  miles  away.  It  was  on  the  Fri- 
day that  Scannell's  teams  creaked  down  the 
steep  road  to  the  township,  unloaded  sheep  and 
rabbit  skins  at  the  siding  through  a  blue-cold 
icy  day,  and  filled  up  Blake's  bar-parlour  af- 
terwards. Tod  was  angry  with  Mackerrow, 
and  he  said  so. 

"I'm  runnin'  couples  wid  Randal,  now,"  he 
said.  "An'  Randal  is  not  me  pick  at  all.  You 
remember  what  I  tould  ye  last  musterin'?" 

Last  mustering  Tod  and  Randal  had  found 
a  man — long  dead — on  the  highest,  cruellest 
peak  on  Mains  Run.  Tod  had  whistled  his 
dogs  off  the  bones,  scraped  a  hole  on  the  sunny 
side  of  a  slope  where  the  snow  lay  soft,  and 
shoveled  the  ugly  things  in.  Then  he  called 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD        3 

upon  Randal  to  say  a  prayer.  But  Randal 
said  no  more  than  "Rot,"  and  went  downhill 
with  his  dogs  abroad  on  the  shingle  behind  him. 
Tod  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  uncovered. 

"May  ye  sleep  swater  than  ye  smell,"  he 
said.  "An*  may  your  luck  be  better  to  ye 
than  that  ould  boyo  shankin'  away  beyant 
there." 

Then  he  crossed  himself,  and  followed  down- 
ward through  the  loneliness. 

Gordon  grunted  through  the  smoke-reek. 

"I  knew  Randal  long  afore  that,"  he  said. 
"He  got  all  the  bowels  of  an  empty  churn,  and 
all  the  heart  of  a  seeded  cabbage.  I  cud  tell 
you  things  of  Randal " 

Randal  was  without  in  the  bar.  Mogger 
saw  the  square  of  his  shoulders  beyond  the 
door- jamb,  and  kicked  Gordon's  stool  in  deli- 
cate warning.  For  Gordon  was  only  a  sluic- 
ing hand  and  did  not  know  the  weight  of  Ran- 
dal's fist. 

"Go  an'  tell  it  top  oj  Lonely  Hill,  then,  you 
chunk.  We  knows  what  Randal  is." 

Ted  Douglas  knocked  out  his  pipe  with  a 
chuckle.  He  was  a  long,  well-knit  boy,  and 
head-man  to  Scannell  of  Mains.  For  where 
power  to  rule  is  in  men,  age  and  length  of 
tenour  break  before  it.  Besides  he  was  strong, 
body  and  brain,  and  clean  as  the  snow  hills  that 
bred  him. 


4        THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Do  you?"  he  said,  dryly.  "You're  clever! 
Do  you  know  what  Randal  is?  Do  you  know 
what  any  on  us  is?" 

"Don't  tell  it,"  prayed  Danny,  pushing  Con- 
Ion  off  the  accordeon,  and  slipping  his  own 
hands  into  the  slings.  "It's  a  five-day  sar- 
mon,  reekin'  wi'  samples,  and  berginnin'  wi' 
Lou " 

"Who  went  down  to  Jerusalem  and  fell 
among  thieves,"  clicked  in  Lou's  light,  refined 
voice  from  the  corner  where  he  took  down  an 
outsider  at  Nap. 

"Bedad,  ye  needn't  go  seekin'  to  Jerushlum 
for  thim,"  cried  Tod— "wid  th'  shirt  stole  off 
the  back  of  me  to  putt  on  Moody  when  he  goes 
to  see  his  girl.  Why  don't  ye  buy  wan  of 
your  own  wid  the  pennies  ye  take  out  of  the 
Church-plate,  Sundays?" 

'Twas  nothin'  more'n  a  necktie,  anyways," 
said  Moody,  unabashed.  "Not  ernuff  ter  pin 
me  collar  to,  an'  dirty  at  that.  Does  they  on'y 
hev  ha'pennies  at  Chapel  then?" 

"Buttons,"  said  the  Blacksmith,  and  Danny 
chanted  softly: 

"  *We  are  all  brothers  in  this  land  o'  dreamin.'  * 

The  Packer  woke  with  a  snort. 

"I  knows  what  Randal  is,"  he  said  sudden- 
ly. "He's  them  sort  as  wants  a  'ole  pack-'oss 
to  hisself,  and  won't  balance  up  into  a  decent 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD        5 

load  wi'  ornary  men.  There's  lots  o'  them 
knockin'  round.  Lou's  another." 

Lou  shot  a  swift  glance  across  the  room.  No 
man  ever  saw  behind  the  blue  of  his  eyes  or  the 
smile  of  his  well-cut  mouth. 

"Who's  going  to  balance  up  with  us  instead 
of  Mackerrow,  Ted?"  he  said. 

"  Jimmie  Elaine,"  said  Ted  Douglas,  shortly. 

All  the  township  knew  that  Ted  Douglas 
and  Jimmie  were  mates.  And  all  the  town- 
ship knew  the  meaning  of  Lossin's  remark: 

"Are  yer  takin'  him  on  a  chain  an'  a  collar 
fur  next  time  yer  goes  after  cattle?" 

When  the  Packer  was  sober  he  attempted 
to  shoulder  every  quarrel  in  Argyle. 

"Jimmie's  bin  after  cattle  on  Behar.  He 
won't  carry  the  collar-galls  on  his  neck  as  long 
as  you're  doin'." 

Randal  swung  through  the  room  as  Lossin 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  oath. 

"Stop  that,"  he  said,  and  struck  Lossin's 
arm  down.  "If  you  want  to  hit  your  grand- 
father, go  and  nose  round  the  work-houses  till 
you  find  him." 

"One  degeneration's  enough  fur  any  man," 
said  Danny  peaceably.  "Where  would  he  find 
a  grand-dad?  I  ain't  got  one  meself ." 

"I'll  sell  you  a  brace  fur  ten-pence,"  offered 
Mogger,  who  wore  rags  the  year  through  that 
he  might  feed  his  relations.  "And  a  granny, 
too,  ter  make  it  up  to  a  bob." 


6        THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

^  "Thank  ye,"  said  Danny;  "but  I'm  thinkin' 
o*  startin'  at  the  other  end.  Shove  'em  on  ter 
Moody.  He'll  never  get  a  wife  havin'  on'y  had 
ten  gels  a'ready." 

"Revoke,"  said  Lou,  from  his  corner,  and 
the  outsider  stammered  in  helpless  innocence. 

Conlon  winked  at  Gordon  as  he  cast  more 
wood  on  the  fire.  Lou's  methods  were  known 
in  the  township. 

Randal  dropped  on  the  form  beside  Derrett, 
and  spread  his  long  hands  to  the  blaze.  They 
had  been  a  gentleman's  hands  before  the  nails 
broke  and  the  joints  coarsened  by  work.  And 
Randal  had  been  a  gentleman  before  the  life 
he  chose  had  made  his  soul  even  as  his  hands. 
But  the  blackened  hands  and  soul  had  pulled 
Mains  out  of  more  than  one  tight  pinch  when 
the  snow  was  down  on  the  sheep-country. 

The  air  without  rang  with  frost,  and  the 
eternal  thump  of  the  dredges  a  half-mile  down 
the  river  sounded  close  to  each  man  as  the  beat- 
ing of  his  heart.  The  bar-parlour  was  hot, 
and  gay  with  the  fire-blaze.  It  smelt  of  the 
stables,  and  rank  tobacco,  and  beer.  A  man 
who  came  quick-foot  down  the  street  to  swing 
the  side-door  open,  halted  on  the  sill  to  gasp 
and  to  shout: 

"Who's  in  there  behind  that  reek?  Any 
chaps  who  can  ride? 

Derrett  felt  the  quiver  of  the  man  beside 
him,  and  saw  it  flick  to  one  and  another 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD        7 

throughout  the  room.  It  was  the  muscles  of 
the  saddle-bred  tightening  unconsciously,  to 
strike  them  out  from  loafer,  and  dredge-hand, 
and  ganger. 

'  'Bout  half  on  us,"  said  Douglas.    "What's 
the  row,  Murray?" 

Murray's  blue  uniform  and  clean-cut  face 
showed  under  the  door-lamp.  He  had  left  an 
English  University  for  love  of  adventure ;  and, 
from  cap-peak  to  spurred  heel,  all  the  district 
knew  him  for  the  honourable  plucky  gentleman 
the  Old  World  breeds,  and  sometimes  sends  us. 

"Young  Scannell's  gone  up  the  Changing 
and  into  the  hills.  I'll  want  all  of  you  I  can 
get  to  find  him." 

Randal  sprang  up  with  an  oath  as  Conlon 
cried : 

"Drunk  again,  is  he?" 

"I  believe  you!  Rouse  up,  you  fellows. 
Who's  coming?" 

Tod  scratched  his  nose,  answering  for  them 
all,  dubiously. 

"Ah,  then,  man  dear,  wouldn't  it  be  bet- 
ther  for  the  boys  to  let  him  go  streelin'  away 
to  the  ind  of  the  world  and  beyant  it,  sure?" 

"Come  out  of  that,  you  lazy  beggar,  before 
I  bring  you  by  the  scruff." 

Then,  as  the  warmth  held  the  men  still  in 
idleness,  Murray's  voice  changed,  and  cut  with 
a  sudden  incisiveness.  "Is  it  a  pack  of  cowards 
I'm  calling  on  in  here?" 


8        THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"By  Gad! — come  along  out  of  this,  boys, 
and  we'll  show  him!  Up  the  Changing,  is  it? 
And  I'll  give  you  a  lead.  Have  you  got  a 
horse  that'll  stand  up  on  this  country,  Mur- 
ray?" 

It  was  Lou  Birot's  clear  voice  above  the 
grate  of  turning  feet,  and  of  forms  that  fell 
all  ways.  Lou  had  carried  his  swag  into  Mains 
last  year — no  man  knew  whence  nor  why,  and 
he  did  not  tell.  But  the  nerve  which  every- 
where commands  respect  from  men  was  in  Lou 
a  balanced  finely-tempered  sword,  and  "Scan- 
nell's  lot"  reverenced  it,  forgiving  his  other 
sins. 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Ted  Douglas.  "Who'll 
take  the  drays  home?" 

"You  and  Moody.  Head  and  tail.  That's 
easy.  WTiere's  Blake?  Can  he  let  us  have 
horses?  Get  out  there,  Roddy " 

"Bluff!"  cried  Scott.  "It's  the  'coward' 
nicked  you,  Lou.  But  you  ain't  playing  my 
hand.  I  pass." 

"One  funk  among  Scannell's  men,"  said 
Randal,  diving  into  his  oilskins. 

"Funk  be  hanged !  If  young  Art  hadn't  got 
a  sister  you  wouldn't— 

Douglas  tripped  Scott  headlong  as  Ran- 
dal's left  shot  out,  and  three  more  punted  him 
into  the  passage  and  slammed  the  door.  Then, 
as  the  tide  of  feet  set  to  the  stable,  Steve  said 
with  a  gasp : 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD        9 

"Fust  time  ever  I  see  Randal  fleshed.  Is 
there  truth  in  that  yarn,  after  all?" 

The  boys  charged  out,  sweeping  Blake  and 
a  lantern  with  them.  A  half-dozen  seized  such 
horses  and  gear  as  he  owned;  more  raided 
Phelan's  stables  and  Conroy's  at  the  corner. 
Jingle  of  steel,  hoof  clatter,  and  the  volleys 
of  chaff  brought  the  township  to  stare  and  ask 
questions.  A  white  face  showed  in  a  stray 
lantern-flash.  Douglas  gripped  the  shoulder 
below  it,  and  said: 

"Not  you,  Jimmie.  You  don't  know  the 
country." 

"They  brought  me,  Ted.  They  said  I  was 
one  o'  you  now " 

"You  go  back  in  the  drays  with  Moody — 
take  that  scared  look  off  before  you  show  up 
at  Mains." 

Douglas  cast  on  his  gear,  and  wheeled  out, 
two  lines  quick  and  deep  on  his  forehead.  For 
that  instinct  beyond  reason  which  joins  or  di- 
vides men  apart  from  their  understanding  had 
knitted  him  to  a  mate  weak  in  body  and  spirit, 
and  he  knew  the  unbending  code  of  ScannelTs 
men. 

Lou  came  over  the  fence,  his  feet  seeking  the 
stirrups.  He  had  borrowed  a  half-broken  colt 
from  Jackson,  and  Jackson  hobbled  after,  bab- 
bling uncared-for  warnings. 

He  flung  the  roll-call  along  as  he  raced  up 
where  the  street  clanged  like  rock  to  the  hoofs : 


10      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

and  the  answers  came,  crisp  and  gay,  and 
eager,  for  the  tingling  of  frost  and  of  fight 
held  the  boys. 

Murray's  eyes  were  bright  in  the  dark  as  he 
rounded  his  troop. 

"Fifteen!  And  all  sorts  of  cattle  and  gear! 
Good  on  you,  boys!  Take  the  running,  Lou. 
You've  got  a  genius  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

Steve  loosed  a  great  oath  on  the  night. 

"There  ain't  no  heel-taps  when  Lou's  shout- 
in*  drinks.  What's  Art  Scannell  to  pay  over 
this,  Murray?" 

Murray's  brown  face  was  suddenly  hard  as 
his  voice. 

"The  last  inch  I  can  grind  out  of  him.  He 
gives  more  trouble  than  any  man  in  the  dis- 
trict." 

Randal  caught  Lou's  stirrup.  He  said  un- 
derbreath : 

"If  you  find  him — he's  not  Murray's  meat." 

Lou's  laugh  was  blue  flame  in  his  eyes.  Here 
was  a  game  to  his  hand;  for  Randal  was  a 
rider  also. 

"If  I  find  him,  he  is.  Wake  up  there,  boys. 
Wheel  out." 

He  settled  home  in  the  leather  with  the  light 
poise  of  one  born  to  it,  and  slung  the  half- 
mad  colt  forward,  firm-handed  and  easy. 

The  sharp  air  bit  faces  and  hands,  sending 
the  blood  in  a  gallop  to  the  heart,  and  sway- 
ing fear  and  reluctance  aside.  For  each  type 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      11 

takes  its  pleasure  in  kind;  and  each  man,  the 
world  through,  would  at  one  time  or  other 
uphold  his  private  courage  through  payment 
forced  thereby  from  another. 

"We  has  my  sympathy,"  said  Danny,  plung- 
ing into  the  dark.  "All  on  us  'cept  that  blazin' 
comic  in  the  lead.  Give  Lou  a  little  bit  o* 
Hell-fire  ter  play  with,  an'  he'd  feed  himself 
into  the  flame  fer  the  fun  of  it." 

"Get  out,"  said  Steve.  "Father  Denis  calls 
him  the  flower  of  the  flock.  I  won't  deny  as 
he's  a  pretty  rank  bloomer  when  he's  set  in  a 
soil  that  suits  him — Mogger,  if  that  ole  brok- 
en-winder o'  yours  expects  ter  fin'  oats  in  my 
pocket " 

"He  was  lookin'  for  suthin'  green  fur  a 
relish,"  explained  Mogger.  But  he  was  not 
there  when  Steve's  fist  shot  out. 

Derrett's  shop  rose  at  the  corner,  and  Lou 
swung  to  the  left,  up  a  side-street  where  the 
young  moon  hung  ahead.  The  creak  of 
leather  and  the  anger  of  chilled  horses  under 
the  bit  brought  a  bellow  from  a  low  cottage- 
door. 

"Hallo,  bhoys!    Liftin'  cattle  tu-noight?" 

Murray  turned  in  the  saddle  to  answer,  and 
Lou  cried : 

"Father  Denis — say  a  mass  for  his  soul  if 
we  find  him." 

The  hoofs  passed,  and  the  priest  stood  still, 
his  fat  chin  shut  into  his  hand.  He  knew  men ; 


12      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

by  the  hang  of  their  coats,  and  the  way  they 
have  their  hair  cut,  and  by  the  things  that 
they  do  not  do;  and  his  religion  was  broad 
as  his  brogue. 

"The  soul  that  sinneth,"  he  said.  "An*  Lou 
Birot  afther  it  wid  that  voice  tu  him.  Bedad ! 
the  divil  will  have  a  foine  whipper-in  when 
Lou  comes  tu  his  own.  Ah,  me  bhoys;  we're 
growin'  intu  men,  bhut  there's  plenty  of  the 
brute  in  us  yit." 

He  went  back  to  the  still  little  room  that 
knew  half  the  sin  and  the  joy  of  the  town- 
ship; and  far  off,  through  the  vivid  clear 
night,  Lou  led  the  chase  for  the  soul  that  had 
sinned. 

Trees  and  clumped  houses  showed  up  and 
passed;  planking  came  under-foot  with  a 
shiver;  down  stream  and  up  blinked  the  red- 
eyed  dredges,  and  from  the  right  came  the 
squeal  of  hydraulics.  Beyond,  tall  cliffs  slewed 
the  track  at  an  angle,  and  Murray  cried: 

"You  can  get  us  up  the  Changing,  Lou? 
We'll  lose  hours  if  we  follow  the  road." 

Lou  chuckled.  For  the  animal  instinct  of 
following  a  lead  is  stronger  when  other  forces 
are  numb. 

"Yes;  and  at  top — if  you're  game." 

"Hear  that!"  cried  Mogger.  "At  top — up 
the  Changin' — hear  that " 

"Stow  it,"  said  Danny  savagely.  "Think 
we're  all  deaf  if  we  ain't  got  ears  the  size  o* 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      13 

yourn?  We  got  ter  wipe  that  suckermantal 
hint  o'  Murray's  out  on  him,  an'  you  can  bet 
all  your  fambly  we're  goin'  ter  do  it." 

Lou's  colt  was  raw  and  too  eager.  But  he 
had  been  bred  on  the  high  country  beyond 
Changing  Creek  where  Art  Scannell's  black 
mare  ran  last  year. 

"And  it's  there  she'll  go  back,"  said  Murray. 
"With  young  Art  atop  of  her  while  there's 
life  in  him.  Drunk  or  sane,  you  can't  shake 
him  off  anything  with  hide  on." 

The  air  stank  of  mud  and  wet  flax;  the 
grate  of  shingle  came  under  the  hoof,  and 
Tod's  gelding  slipped  on  smooth  ice  where 
the  star-reflection  was  faint. 

Lou  dropped  his  cheek  to  the  mane,  his  blue 
eyes  sifting  the  night  for  the  dark  smudge  that 
would  be  the  Glory's  dam-line.  They  missed 
contact  by  the  width  of  a  hand,  and  Carr  said, 
unmoved : 

"Ten  fut  o*  water  the  Glory  has  behind  them 
sand-bags,  now.  Good  fur  us  Lou  picked  'em 
up." 

Tussock  made  evil  foot-hold  again;  then  a 
nigger-head  swamp,  sharp  with  ice,  and  foul 
with  water  that  splashed  to  the  eye-brows.  All 
around  rose  black  swan,  wide-winged  and  cry- 
ing to  the  night  like  spirits  turned  back  from 
the  world  beyond.  The  horses  took  their  own 
way,  headlong;  and  with  loose  rein,  Tod  was 
crossing  himself.  For  ghost-lights  played 


14      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

games  in  the  water  that  was  too  sinfully  black 
to  reflect  God's  own  light. 

On  the  hill-top  they  rose  the  Lion  lamps, 
and  caught  the  air  from  mountains  that  the 
breath  of  no  living  thing  warmed.  Lou  came 
of  the  breed  that  loves  the  asphalt-track  on  the 
edge  of  the  great  world's  grass-plot,  and  he 
handled  his  men  with  cunning  and  delight. 
Round  the  curved  knolls  over  the  Lion  where 
the  nozzle-flash  climbed  to  the  stars ;  slow- foot 
through  the  running  shingle  beyond,  and  into 
the  place  where  the  silence  of  all  the  world 
lived.  Here  he  turned  in  the  saddle. 

"You  said  Ormond  saw  him  on  the  track?" 
"Yes,"  said  Murray;  "he  was  going — . — " 
The  boys'  deep-chested  growl  drowned  the 
words.    The  old  crumbling  track,  beaten  out 
a  lifetime  ago  by  the  feet  of  men  seeking  gold, 
held  the  sky-line  ten  miles  off  as  the  bullet  flies, 
and  well  Scannell's  men  knew  the  land  in  be- 
tween.    For  they  drew  cattle  from  it  in  the 
season,  and  horses ;  taking  the  underway  care- 
fully, with  daylight  to  guide. 

"Then  we'll  make  a  bee-line,"  said  Lou.  "It's 
going  to  be  rough." 

Lou  lied  when  it  so  pleased  him,  but  he  spoke 
less  than  the  truth  this  night.  With  hands 
low  and  light  on  the  rein,  they  charged  down 
the  slope  that  was  made  of  frozen  creeklets 
and  stones,  and  rounded  off  by  a  brawling  little 
stream  with  soft  bottom,  Each  man's  breath 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      15 

made  a  winding-sheet  round  him,  and  the  sting 
of  frost  was  live  in  the  air.  The  track  rose 
by  twists  and  grades,  with  a  great  purple  sky 
widening  as  the  earth  dropped  away.  Flax- 
leaves  slashed  their  faces,  blinding  the  paths 
that  the  horses  took  with  strong  shoulder- 
heaves  and  chest-breathing.  The  flung-out 
breast  of  a  hill  above  jagged  the  star-clusters. 
They  swung  round  the  curve  of  it  where  late 
snow  lay  yet  in  the  hollows,  and  took  clear 
country  again,  with  sparse  tussock  and  slag.  A 
wire  fence,  like  a  dewed  spider-web,  cut  the 
black  scarp  beyond,  and  Murray  cheered  as  a 
schoolboy  when  it  sung  behind  to  the  touch  of 
one  hoof  only. 

Hands  were  numb  on  the  rein;  the  breath 
of  the  eternal  snows  was  too  near  and  too  pure ; 
the  iron  chill  of  the  stirrup  made  the  feet  tingle 
and  throb.  The  smell  of  bush  blew  across  them ; 
caught  and  ripped  them  with  a  thousand  damp 
hands.  It  was  blind  and  savage,  and  sensu- 
ous with  its  rich  heavy  odours;  and  the  ferny 
rottenness  was  dank  under-foot. 

"How  much  more  o'  this  is  there?"  growled 
Carr,  when  the  way  tilted  up  a  bare  hill  with 
a  sprinkling  of  snow  on  the  flint.  And  Tod 
answered : 

"Divil  knows — an'  Lou,  if  they're  two.  But, 
be  all  things,  I  misdoubt  it  this  night." 

Talk  dulled  in  the  men;  but  the  horses  had 
the  great  glad  hearts  that  tire  not,  and 


16      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

colt  strained  the  rein  still.  Then,  as  buckets 
climb  the  dredge-ladder,  they  came  one  by  one 
to  the  broken  hill-track  and  paused.  Randal 
dropped  from  the  saddle,  and  slacked  the 
mare's  girths.  Murray's  face  was  alight  as 
he  followed. 

"By  Jingo,  Lou,"  he  cried,  "you've  given 
me  something  to  remember.  And  I've  got  my 
own  horse  I  How  the  devil  do  you  fellows  do 
it!" 

But  Lou  did  not  hear.  He  was  watching 
Randal,  and  his  eyes  were  shining.  Randal's 
neck  was  bloody  where  branches  had  torn  it, 
and  there  was  mud  on  his  collar.  His  long 
hands  fumbled  stiffly  with  the  buckles,  and  his 
pipe  was  dead  between  his  teeth.  But  in  the 
clear  starlight  his  lean  body  moved  untired, 
and  his  strong  face  showed  hard  and  more  reso- 
lute. 

"You're  a  man,"  said  Lou,  underbreath. 
"But  if  it's  you  and  I  for  him,  Randal,  I'll 
make  you  sit  up." 

The  men  talked  amid  the  clink  of  harness, 
and  Moody  swore  as  he  tried  to  strike  a  match. 
But  Murray  stood  aside  with  every  nerve  ting- 
ling, and  a  sudden  marvelling  at  these  sons  of 
the  hills  who  knew  not  exhaustion  nor  fear. 

All  God's  world  is  wise  and  terrible  by  night. 
But  the  hills,  that  through  the  centuries  bare 
their  breasts  to  the  secrets  that  the  stars  tell 
them,  receive  an  awful  majesty  which  the 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      17 

plains  and  the  downs  never  know.  For  neither 
beast  nor  bird  break  the  eternal  stillness,  nor 
mark  the  eternal  snow.  Flint  and  red  granite, 
the  little  grey  cotton-plant  and  the  swaying 
snow-grass  held  the  wastes  for  their  own,  and 
at  Murray's  elbow  one  long-dead  black  pine 
creaked  in  the  frost-grip.  The  white  spurs 
were  naked  in  the  moonlight;  but  the  gullies 
were  dark  as  waiting  graves.  Danny  chuckled 
as  he  climbed  to  the  saddle  again. 

"The  squad  will  now  perceed  ter  investiga- 
tin'  on  its  own  bloomin'  'ook,"  he  said.  "I  hope 
it  ain't  me  ter  find  him,  that's  all.  Young 
Art's  apt  ter  be  lively." 

Lou  dropped  away  on  Randal's  quarter. 
For  him  it  was  to  stalk  the  stalker;  and  for 
two  fierce  hours  he  played  a  waiting  game,  by 
gully-top  and  shingle-slope  and  green  spring- 
heads that  the  frost  had  made  into  skating- 
rinks.  And  ever,  through  the  stern  white  si- 
lences, he  kept  touch  of  the  black  shadow  that 
sought  and  called  and  sought  for  hoof -prints 
again  on  the  frozen  snow.  By  a  warm  spring 
in  the  toi-toi  Randal  found  the  hoof-prints. 
They  headed  straight  for  the  Big  Bush  be- 
yond. His  teeth  shut  with  a  snap,  and  the 
mare  sprang  as  the  heels  slapped  her  sides. 
Rotten  slag  slid  away  from  the  hoof ;  crisp  tus- 
sock and  crackling  white  spray.  The  mare's 
feet  made  fierce  red  writing  on  the  flint,  and 
the  underway  was  suddenly  slippery  with  the 


18      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

little  round  leaves  of  loose  birch-bush.  Great 
boles  and  tree-tops  closed  the  earth  into  shad- 
ows, and  a  sound  woke  that  sent  the  blood  to 
Randal's  throat.  For  it  was  the  snickering 
gasp  of  a  winded  horse,  and  a  laugh  that  might 
be  a  child's. 

Randal  sat  down  to  ride ;  with  cunning  that 
swung  him  unhurt  between  the  trees  and  the 
snatching  vines;  with  speed  because  ahead  the 
bush  was  cleft  by  a  gully  that  would  audit  Art 
Scannell's  accounts  for  Eternity;  and  with  a 
brain  that  said: 

"You  brute!  Oh,  you  brute!  Why  don't  you 
let  him  go!  You've  no  right  to  hold  her  by 
that  or  by  anything  else." 

Scrub  crashed  at  his  shoulder,  and  Lou's 
light  figure  rode  as  his  shadow  beside  him. 
Randal  was  blind  for  an  instant.  Then  he 
said: 

"I  want  him — myself." 

"Of  course,"  said  Lou,  gaily;  "so  do  I." 

Then  the  laugh  ahead  filled  the  night,  and 
words  broke  before  it. 

Tripping  scrub  and  vines  barred  the  way; 
lawyer  ripped  flesh  from  faces  and  necks; 
creeping  lichens  were  moist  on  the  branches 
that  hit  them,  and  the  thick  wild  smell  of  bush 
clogged  their  breathing.  The  lust  of  capture 
was  heavy  on  horses  and  men,  and  Randal's 
sweating  hands  slipped  on  the  reins  as  he  lifted 
his  mare  forward  by  the  spurs.  The  bush 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      19 

thinned,  showing  the  thing  that  they  sought; 
and  beyond  lay  the  gully.  Randal  caught  the 
frozen  flash  of  a  waterfall  across  it  as  Lou 
said: 

"Leave  him.  That  will  settle  all  things  for 
ever." 

Three  paces,  and  the  black  mare  slung  round 
to  the  grip  on  her  bit.  Art  Scannell's  laugh 
shut  off  with  a  shriek. 

"Randal!"  he  cried,  and  his  whip  cut  across 
the  face  opposite. 

Randal  jerked  the  silver-set  thing  down  to 
the  creek  far  below. 

"You'll  follow  if  you  play  up  with  me,  Art," 
he  said. 

Lou  laughed. 

"Go  it,  Art,"  he  cried,  and  slapped  the  boy's 
knee. 

Art  stooped  with  a  snarl,  meeting  his  teeth 
in  the  thick  of  the  hand;  and  Lou  came  out 
of  the  saddle  with  the  brute  that  lives  in  every 
man  quick  on  his  face. 

"Lou — don't —  The  girlish  treble  voice 
was  over-dear  to  Randal.  He  made  peace  by 
such  wit  as  he  had,  and  Lou  looked  at  him, 
grinning. 

"I  think  you've  done  more  harm  than  you 
know,  to-night,  Randal,"  he  said.  "Take  the 
young  beggar  where  you  like.  I  don't  want 
to  be  bothered  with  him." 

No  mood  held  Lou  for  long,  and  he  was 


20      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

whistling  cheerily  when  the  keas  on  Lonely 
Hill  heard  Art  Scannell  crying  down  the  ways, 
and  answered  with  a  long  glad  challenge.  Lou 
looked  through  the  gloom  at  the  red  of  Ran- 
dal's pipe. 

"Taking  him  down  to  the  hut,  then?"  he 
said. 

"Yes." 

"Murray  will  come  after  him." 

"Let  him!" 

"And  the  boys  will  say " 

"What?" 

The  word  hit  like  a  bullet,  and  Lou  laughed, 
low  and  soft. 

"More  than  Art  ScannelTs  sister  would  like 
to  hear,"  he  muttered. 

A  musterer's  hut  squatted  at  foot  of  a  sid- 
ing. Randal  led  the  horses  down,  hooked  the 
reins  to  a  ring,  and  said  sharply: 

"Come  off  there,  Art." 

The  boy's  hands  were  helpless  with  cold,  and 
his  tears  were  ice  on  the  mane.  But  Lou  lent 
his  lithe  strength  to  Randal's  before  the  door 
shut  on  the  three  and  Randal  struck  a  match 
to  the  slush-lamp.  Then  Art  fell  on  the  bunk 
exhausted;  and  Lou  grinned,  dabbing  a  cut 
on  his  lip. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?"  he 
asked. 

"Keep  him  here  till  he's  through  with  it.  You 
can  go  down  and  tell  Murray  to-morrow.  And 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      21 

tell  him  he  needn't  come  up.  He  won't  get 
Art." 

Randal  kicked  some  sticks  together  in  the 
open  chimney,  and  set  them  ablaze.  Then  he 
sat  on  the  chopping-block,  his  chin  in  the  heel 
of  his  hands,  and  his  strong  muscles  loosed.  He 
had  given  months  of  loneliness  to  this  hut  in 
the  last  sheep-season,  and  his  cast  blankets 
were  in  the  bunk  yet.  Lou  asked  no  ques- 
tions. It  was  not  needful.  He  yawned.  Then 
he  grinned  again. 

"Oh,  you  fool,"  he  said  softly,  and  glanced 
at  the  bunk. 

Art  Scannell  lay  across  the  grey  blankets 
with  his  smooth  pretty  face  thrown  back.  The 
small  black  head  and  short  upper  lip  were  too 
like  a  girl's — too  like  the  girl  for  whom  Ran- 
dal would  have  paid  away  his  soul,  and  who 
was  far  above  his  reach,  as  men  count  things 
in  this  world.  The  flames  bobbed  and  flut- 
tered in  the  chimney;  outside  the  horses  dozed 
under  warmth  of  the  bag-covers,  and  a  mopoke 
called,  once  and  again. 

Art  Scannell  shot  up  in  his  bunk,  and  his 
eyes  were  suddenly  awful. 

"Hear  that  chap  crying,"  he  said.  "See  him? 
There  .  .  .  through  the  hole  in  the  thatch!" 

Lou  leapt  for  him  with  his  eternal  light 
laugh. 

"Now  we're  in  for  it,  Randal,"  he  said,  and 
brought  the  boy  down  by  the  leg. 


22      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

When  a  man  treads  a  track  of  his  own  free- 
will he  has  no  pity  for  those  bruising  their 
feet  alongside.  Too  many  times  had  Lou 
been  down  the  path  Art  led  them  to  find  shame 
therein.  But,  because  of  a  girl,  the  boy's  feet 
trod  through  Randal's  heart. 

A  scarlet  morning  was  on  the  hill-tops,  and 
the  dark  of  the  gullies  gave  before  it  when 
Randal  cast  wide  the  door,  clearing  his  half- 
blinded  eyes  with  his  shirt-sleeve.  Behind  him 
Lou,  unbroken  still,  sang  in  his  careless  tenor: 

"Beloved!     It  is  morn. 

A  redder  berry  on  the  thorn,  a  brighter  yellow  on  the 

corn, 
For  this  good  day,  new-born  .   .   ." 

"Don't,"  said  Randal  with  his  heart  in  his 
throat,  and  both  men  looked  to  the  bunk  where 
Art  Scannell  lay  bound  with  three  towels  and 
a  belt. 

Lou  lifted  his  eyebrows.    Then  he  said  light- 

iy= 

"It's  a  noble  thing  to  save  a  man's  life,  isn't 
it,  Randal?" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  long  wooden  eating-whare  smelt  of 
onions  and  meat,  and  rang  with  the  talk  of 
Scannell's  men  at  breakfast.  Red,  frosty  sun- 
light struck  the  clattering  tinware  to  mix  there 
with  the  red  of  the  fire;  and  the  slow  peace  of 
Sunday  lay  over  the  men.  Lou  blocked  the 
door  for  an  instant,  causing  Beckett  and 
Scott  to  shout  wrath  from  their  card-game 
among  the  dirty  plates.  Then  he  swung  his 
legs  over  a  form,  and  pushed  out  a  place  be- 
tween Mogger  and  Buck. 

"Send  along  the  tea-pot,"  he  said;  "and  that 
pannikin.  Where's  the  milk?" 

Beyond  Steve,  Danny's  freckled  face  bobbed 
out  of  line. 

"Mornin,"  he  said  politely.  "Ter-morrer 
mornin'.  Did  yer  know  it?  We  put  in  a  de- 
tail of  a  day's  work  while  yer  was  etherealisin' 
up  in  the  hills." 

"Never  gettin'  yer  Sat'day  night's  spring- 
cleanin',  neither,"  shouted  Beckett,  whilst 
Scott  promptly  revoked. 

Tod  spread  himself  on  the  battle  of  dispute 
delightedly,  and  Buck  said: 


24      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Slep'  in  yer  boots,  Lou,  didn't  yer?" 

The  last  forty  hours  had  been  sufficiently 
heavy  to  break  another  man.  But  Lou 
grinned,  dredging  brown  sugar  into  his  panni- 
kin. 

"Who  roped  in  Art  Scannell?"  he  said. 

"Give  us  another.  The  boss  said  you  did  it. 
We  runned  till  we  was  sick  of  it.  Then  we 
corned  back — down  the  old  track." 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Danny,  cheerfully.  "We 
was  sick  of  it  'fore  we  started.  Who  was  the 
id  jit  as  found  him?  You  or  Randal?" 

"It  was  a  close  thing.  But  Randal  claimed 
the  stakes — which  were  Art." 

"He'd  sooner  be  claimin'  the  Miss-takes," 
giggled  the  cook,  tossing  tin  plates  into  the 
sink,  and  Tod  returned,  wild-haired,  to  the 
table. 

"Well,  now,  but  that's  a  pity,"  he  said.  "I'd 
putt  by  two  masses  for  the  dirty  sowl  of  him, 
which  I  was  takin*  the  money  down  to  Father 
Denis  to-day." 

"Hand  it  in  fur  Jimmie's  soul,"  suggested 
Danny.  "He  cud  do  wi'  suthin'  ter  kip  it  from 
drippin*  out  o'  his  boot-heels  every  time  he  runs 
away." 

Jimmie's  life  at  Mains  was  a  day  old.  But 
half  the  boys  on  the  station  had  made  his  nose 
bleed  at  the  district  school  in  years  past — un- 
less Ted  Douglas  were  by.  Now  Douglas  put 
a  leg  over  the  narrow  table,  and  followed  it. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      25 

"Are  you  goin'  to  take  that  back?"  he  asked. 

Danny's  freckled  nose  reefed  in  a  grin. 

"Deciduously,  yer  great  lumberin'  hipper- 
otermus.  Let  it  go  fur  Jimmie's  boots,  then. 
Double  'eels,  fur  perfrontin'  a  leak." 

Jimmie  flung  a  scone  to  secure  attention, 
and  his  boy-face  was  unflushed. 

"Don't  spile  him  to-day,  Ted,"  he  said. 
"He's  goin'  down  ter  see  his  girl,  an'  it  tuk  him 
a  half-hour  oilin'  his  bang.  Jes'  take  him  ter 
pieces  pretty,  an'  put  him  tergether  agin  wi' 
that  face  o'  his  turned  inside  ef  yer  can  manage 
it." 

Lou  blinked  through  the  haze  of  breath  and 
steam. 

"Mains  has  got  a  nut  in  you,  Jimmie  who- 
ever-you-are,"  he  murmured. 

Then  he  went  across  the  yard  to  his  bunk 
and  slept  until  the  noise  of  a  boxing-skirmish, 
conducted  under  strictly  scientific  rules,  drew 
him  out  to  the  gay  sunshine  of  the  sloping  pad- 
dock that  ended  in  a  rush-bound  creek. 

Danny  was  referee  and  umpire  and  general 
promoter,  and  half  the  township  were  there  by 
special  invitation.  Scannell  of  Mains  allowed 
all  things — in  reason;  and  once,  when  the  vicar 
objected,  he  said: 

"What  would  you  have  the  men  do?  Ride 
through  to  the  next  township  and  demand 
drinks  as  travellers?  Too  many  do  that  sort 
of  thing  already." 


26      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Scott  sifted  through  the  mob,  laying  bets. 
It  is  quite  certain  that  he  would  have  done  the 
same  in  church,  had  the  vicar  ever  haled  him 
there.  Lou  stopped  him. 

"Who's  that  girly-looking  kid  clapping  Gor- 
don?" he  asked. 

"One  of  Gordon's  shift  on  the  Lion  Hy- 
draulic— Roddy  Duncan.  He's  a  chum  of  Art 
Scannell's." 

"Art  Scannell!"  breathed  Lou.  Then  he 
broke  Roddy's  treble  laugh  with  a  question. 
You  know  Mr.  Art  Scannell,  eh?" 

"He's  a  pal  of  mine,"  said  the  boy,  turn- 
ing in  a  pride  that  he  could  not  make  care- 
less. 

"I  congratulate  you.  Does  he  ever  speak  to 
you  of  his  sister?" 

"Miss  Effie?  Often.  An'  I  see  her  myself. 
She  comes  up  to  the  claim " 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Randal?" 

"I  seen  him  a  few  times  at  Phelan's,"  said 
Roddy. 

"Ah!  with  Art  Scannell,  of  course."  Phelan's 
was  the  lowest  hotel  in  the  township.  "Well,  I 
hope  you'll  drop  into  Blake's  some  evenings — 
when  Art  doesn't  want  you.  I'll  be  very  glad 
to  see  you,  you  know." 

Lou  strolled  off  from  Roddy's  flushed 
thanks.  The  dead-level  of  indifference  had  no 
favour  for  him,  and  Randal  would  make  a 
good  enemy.  Mogger  asked  what  he  was  grin- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      27 

ning  for,  and  Lou  answered,  jerking  his  head 
toward  the  distant  black  spur : 

"Ted  Douglas  has  just  taken  Jimmie  up 
there — to  vow  to  love,  cherish  and  protect  him, 
I  suppose.  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  a  mate — 
for  the  mate." 

Here  Lou  spoke  raw  truth.  Because  seven 
kinds  of  love  out  of  eight  are  one-sided,  and  the 
world  knows  that  the  eighth  is  the  same. 

Beyond  the  black  spur  Douglas  lay  on  the 
dead  bracken,  and  smoked  in  a  silence  that 
hurt  him.  Jimmie  drew  his  thin  little  knees 
under  the  clasp  of  his  hands,  and  stared  down 
the  tussock  gully  where  sheep  fed  on  the  snow- 
loosened  slopes.  Presently  he  said : 

"Don't  see  as  it's  a  thing  to  get  in  a  sweat 
about,  anyways." 

"Don't  you?"  Ted  Douglas  sat  up,  and  his 
strong  unlined  face  was  tender.  "Ah,  but  you 
knows  that  you  does!  You  can't  come  that 
over  me,  Jimmie.  I'm  'feared  this  is  too  tough 
a  place  for  you,  lad.  Cattle-work  puts  grit  into 
a  man ;  but  it  puts  the  devil  into  him  too.  Our 
chaps  have  got  it  proper.  They  won't  stand 
any  sort  o'  funkin',  an'  you " 

"I  got  a  tongue  ter  skin  'em  with.  That's 
more'n  you  hev." 

Douglas  felt  his  great  muscles  where  the 
sleeves  fell  away  from  the  forearm. 

"I  wonder  what  it  feels  like  to  feel  afraid," 
he  said  slowly. 


28      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Hell,"  said  Jimmie,  laconically. 

Douglas  punched  holes  in  the  turf,  and  his 
lips  tightened.  He  said: 

"I  tolt  you  not  to  come  to  Mains.  We  got 
to  go  back  after  cattle  next  week.  I  was  up 
with  the  boss  this  mornin'.  He  guv  me  the 


names." 


"An ?" 

"An'  you're  one  to  go,  Jimmie." 

Then  Jimmie  pivotted  swiftly,  speaking 
words  that  Ted  Douglas  would  never  have  for- 
given in  another  man.  But  he  loved  Jimmie. 

"I  couldn't  stop  it,"  he  said,  gravely.  "If 
you're  scared,  you  must  hook  it.  You'll  have 
to  do  your  whack  of  graft  here,  Jimmie." 

"I  don't  mind  the  ridin*.  But  if  the  brutes 
come  chargin' — .Ted — oh,  Ted " 

Douglas  put  his  arm  round  the  thin  shoul- 
ders, and  his  grave  young  eyes  were  dark  with 
pity. 

"There's  a  bit  o'  a  mutton-bird's  egg  as 
won't  harden  though  you  boil  'em  for  a  year," 
he  said.  "You've  had  some  firm' — is  there 
nothin'  won't  bile  the  funk  out  of  you,  Jim- 
mie?" 

But  Jimmie  looked  across  the  low  hills  to 
the  smoke-wreaths  of  the  unseen  township,  and 
he  gave  no  answer. 

The  township  ran  two  cemeteries;  but  the 
one  on  the  manuka-hill  overlooking  the  river 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      29 

knew  best  who  "kept  company"  and  who  were 
only  "walking  out"  in  Argyle.  For  the  young 
have  no  fear  in  making  love  among  the  dead. 
And  these  had  been  dead  so  very  long  that  the 
ever-lasting  pea  and  the  clematis  and  the  fox- 
glove had  taken  railings  and  headstones  for 
their  own,  and  wedded  with  the  gorse  and  briar 
to  give  birth  to  new  life. 

"But  that  makes  no  odds,"  said  Steve. 
"Bein'  miners,  it's  ten  ter  one  these  ain't  their 
right  names  at  all.  There  was  lots  ran  under 
false  colours  in  the  early  days — an'  some  do  it 
now." 

He  knelt  on  a  wooden  slab,  scratching  the 
green  moss  from  it  with  his  finger-nail,  and  his 
Sunday  coat  was  tight  on  his  shoulders.  The 
girl  who  had  ordered  this  spoke  with  a  catch 
in  her  throat: 

"Don't!  Oh,  don't  say  that!  Poor  things! 
Here's  'Of  your  mercy  pray  for  the  soul' 
— suppose  it  was  the  wrong  soul,  after 
all?" 

Steve  sat  back  on  his  heels,  and  looked  up. 
No  other  man  on  Mains  had  his  reach  of  arm 
or  his  power  in  a  fight.  But  his  heart  was  as 
big  as  his  body,  and  as  tender  as  that  was 
tough. 

"There  ain't  any  souls  as  *ud  be  the  worse 
for  a  prayer  from  you,  Maiden,"  he  said. 

Maiden  was  slim  and  sweet  and  supple  as 
a  manuka-slip.  Her  hat  was  pushed  back  to  a 


30      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

halo  on  the  fine  soft  hair,  and  the  half -smile 
on  her  mouth  was  wistful. 

"If  yer  was  thinkin'  o'  my  soul, 
Maiden "  ventured  Steve. 

"I  wasn't.    I  was  thinkin'  of  Lou  Birot's." 

"Lou  Birot!"  Steve  came  to  his  feet,  and 
his  voice  grated.  "Lou!  Why?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Maiden. 

"I  won't  deny  as  he'd  be  the  better  for  some 
prayin'  over,"  said  Steve,  dryly.  "But  I'd 
ruther  'tweren't  you  did  it." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  asked  you  what  you'd 
rather,"  said  Maiden,  with  dignity.  "Lou 
wanted  me  to  go  walkin'  with  him  to-day;  but 
I'd  promised  you.  I  mean  to  go  with  him 
next " 

"Yer  won't,"  said  Steve,  hi  sudden  fierce- 
ness. "Not  with  Lou — ever.  Maiden,  yer 
don't  know  him.  He's  a  bad  lot.  A  rotten 
bad " 

"He's  got  prettier  ways'n  you  have " 

"Yes,"  said  Steve  with  a  grin.  "The  boys'll 
tell  yer  that.  Sweet  pretty  ways  he's  got.  But 
they're  not  ways  fur  a  gel  like  you,  Maiden." 

"You're  cowards,  the  lot  of  you,"  cried 
Maiden,  gripping  a  half-fallen  grave-stone  in 
both  little  hands.  "You're  allers  passing  back- 
talk  about  Lou.  You're  all  jealous  of  him 
'cause  he's  good-lookin'  an'  clever — what's  he 
done,  then,  that  you're  so  much  better  than  he 
is?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      31 

No  man  could  cow  Steve.  But  he  stam- 
mered before  the  child-eyed  thing  in  the  print 
frock. 

"I — I  couldn't  tell  it  yer,  my  girlie.  There's 
lots  o'  ways  a  chap  has.  .  .  .  Looky  here, 
Maiden:  if  yer'll  lump  him  inter  yer  prayers 
wi'  Art  Scannell  an'  Jimmie  Elaine,  I  don't 
mind." 

"And  with  you?" 

Steve  looked  over  the  peaceful  graves  to 
the  flood  of  sunlight  down  the  peaceful  gully, 
and  the  half -crescent  of  the  township  at  end 
of  it. 

"If  yer  like — so  long  as  you  remembers  me 
anyways,  my  girlie,"  he  said. 

Fifteen  miles  off  Randal  was  not  exactly 
praying  over  Art  Scannell.  He  stood  in  the 
hut  door-way  with  Murray,  and  Murray 
frowned  with  bitten  lips. 

"He's  weak  as  a  baby,"  said  Randal.  "He 
needs  home  and  bed,  and  feeding  up.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  Well?" 

"Bring  up  a  trap  from  the  township  and 
drive  him  home,  I  suppose.  You  can  ride 
that  black  devil  of  his.  But  if  ever  I  wanted 
to  put  the  handcuffs  on  a  man — and  he'll  do 
more  harm  yet.  It  shakes  a  fellow's  belief — 
look  out.  He's  waking." 

But  it  was  two  days  before  Murray  brought 
Art  Scannell  home.  Randal  rode  in  at  the 


32      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

sunset;  rubbed  down  the  mare,  fed  her,  and 
walked  up  the  track  to  the  house.  Tod  was 
sluicing  his  head  in  a  bucket;  but  he  brought 
it  out  with  a  chuckle  as  Randal  passed  by  the 
whare. 

"Bedad,  thin,  me  foine  boyo,"  he  murmured, 
"there's  apt  to  be  the  big  throuble  for  ye  di- 
rectly." 

"Where?"  demanded  Moody,  opening  an 
eye.  He  was  lying  on  his  stomach,  waiting 
for  the  tea-bell. 

"Och;  it's  jist  hersilf  comin'  wid  wan 
Randal  wud  sooner  be  afther  meeting  wid  a 
chopper  than  wid  her,  if  Scott  shpoke  the 
truth." 

"Scott  can't  speak  truth,"  said  Moody,  blink- 
ing up  the  track.  "Miss  Effie  and  Kiliat! 
That  skunk's  allers  here." 

"Ye've  said  it.  And  Randal  is  apt  to  know 
of  it,  too." 

The  path  was  narrow,  with  wet  grass  on  each 
side.  Randal  made  way,  touching  his  cap. 
And  the  girl  nodded  carelessly,  listening  to 
Kiliat.  Randal  tramped  on  up  the  track,  and 
Moody  turned  with  a  grunt. 

"Told  yer  Scott  lied.  They  never  put  eyes 
on  each  other." 

"Ye're  the  wise  man,  entoirely,"  said  Tod, 
and  his  voice  nettled  Moody. 

"More'n  you  are  then!  Go  and  drip  on 
somebody  else  fur  a  spell,  can't  ye?  Here's 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      33 

Cookie.  He  ain't  had  a  wash  this  week.  Or 
Kiliat  cud  do  wi'  some  drownin'." 

Kiliat  was  manager  of  the  Lion  Hydraulic 
Sluicing  Company,  with  Ormond  to  do  the 
work.  He  was  known  through  the  land  as  a 
fool,  and  the  Packer,  who  owned  his  own  pri- 
vate one-horse  claim  next  door,  wept  when  he 
told  of  Ormond's  patient  mending  of  pipes 
and  patching  up  of  trestles. 

"That  Comp'ny's  suckin'  the  Lion  dry,"  he 
said.  "With  Kiliat  to  show  'em  the 
way.  An'  cuttin'  down  wages  too,  ain't  they, 
Gordon?" 

"You  mind  yer  bloomin'  business,"  said 
Gordon,  suddenly  hostile. 

The  Packer  scratched  his  throat  with  a  dirty 
finger-nail. 

"Never  'ave  I  called  a  man  my  master,"  he 
said,  in  the  pride  of  the  free. 

Randal  crossed  the  flagged  verandah,  and 
knocked  on  the  door  of  the  man  he  called  mas- 
ter. 

"Jack  told  me  at  the  stable  that  you  wanted 
to  see  me,"  he  said. 

Scannell  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the 
desk,  and  looked  at  Randal  straightly.  Few 
could  tell  when  the  knife  was  in  his  flesh,  for 
he  did  not  flinch  from  it. 

"They  tell  me  you  have  saved  my  son's  life. 
I — thank  you,  Randal." 

Randal  was  yet  gentleman  enough  to  flush 


34      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

under  the  true  eyes.  Scannell  of  Mains  had 
small  reason  to  give  thanks  there. 

"You  needn't.  Murray  did  as  much.  What? 
Yes,  sir.  Very  well." 

The  bellow  of  the  tea-bell  caught  him  at  the 
little  gate,  and  he  stopped  in  a  sudden  sick- 
ness. For  it  was  all  the  strait  years  of  work- 
life  that  called  from  the  whare.  Then  his 
eyes  changed ;  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  side-rail, 
leapt  it,  and  ran  with  long  strides  to  the  stables. 
For  Kiliat  rode  up  the  pine  avenue,  and  above 
the  fences  a  little  dark  head  showed  alone. 
She  sprang  at  his  tread;  her  hands  out;  her 
face  glowing. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad — glad.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you- 


'Effie — dearest — I'm  too  dirty- 


But  the  earth  gave  three  clipped  moments  of 
Heaven.  Then  Randal  stood  back. 

"You'd  no  right  to  let  me  touch  you,"  he 
said.  "Out  here!  And  in  daylight!  You 
make  me  a  brute  to  you,  Effie.  I  must  go " 

"Wait!  Ah!  it  shouldn't  be  me  to  say  that! 
Are  you  so  hungry,  then?" 

"Yes,"  said  Randal;  and  his  eyes  brought 
the  colour  swiftly. 

"I — I  never  meant — I  want  to  thank  you  for 
Art— r— " 

"Please  don't,"  said  Randal  dryly.  "Your 
father  has  done  that." 

"Oh!  And  my  thanks  don't  count?    Np — • 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      35 

you  said  I  wasn't  to  let  you  touch  me.  Well, 
but  you  deserve  punishing " 

"Let  me  earn  my  forgiveness  then,  dear." 

The  mischief  left  her  face. 

"There  is  something  I  wanted — you  know 
Roddy  Duncan  from  the  Lion?  He's  such  a 
nice  little  boy,  and  I've  often  seen  him  up 
there.  But — but — he  is  always  with  Art;  and 
dear  old  Art,  he — I  can't  speak  to  Mr.  Ormond 
myself — but — you  know " 

They  were  the  same  fine-cut  features  and 
long-lashed  eyes  that  Randal  had  followed  into 
deeps  that  shook  his  soul  at  the  remembering. 

"I  know,  dear.  I'll  go  down  and  see  Ormond 
to-night.  He  can  put  a  check-strap  on  Rod- 
dy, if  you  wish  it.  I'll  do  what  I  can  to-night. 
We  go  out  to  camp  at  day-break,  you  see." 

He  had  a  twenty-mile  ride  behind  him,  and 
four  nights  that  he  did  not  speak  of  behind 
that.  But  he  took  saddle  again  that  evening 
under  a  wet  sky,  with  Danny's  blessing  chas- 
ing him  out. 

"We're  evolutin'  teetotalers  up  at  the  camp, 
you'll  remember;  an'  you're  not  ter  bring  back 
more'n  a  bottle  o'  lavender  water  fur  Ike " 

Randal  ducked  from  Ike's  quick-flung  pan- 
nikin, and  went  out  on  a  crest  of  laughter.  It 
was  Danny  who  last  week  had  discovered  Ike 
behind  the  brick  oven,  blue  in  the  face,  and 
spitting  "Jockey  Club"  emphatically. 

"Wot's  the  little  game?"  demanded  Danny. 


36      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Ike  rubbed  himself,  and  leaned  on  the  wall. 

"Nellie  up  at  the  'ouse  told  me  I'd  fair  come 
over  any  gal  if  I  scented  meself.  But  I'm 
blamed  ef  I'll  drink  all  that  bottle  fur  any  gal 
livin'.  She'll  hev  to  take  me  smellin',  or  leave 


me." 


Danny  carried  the  bottle  back  to  the  whare, 
and  told  things.  And  Ike  had  taken  little 
joy  in  life  since.  For  the  Mains  boys  knew 
what  to  do  with  a  joke  when  they  saw  one. 

The  night  was  cold  with  grey  blankets  over 
the  hills,  and  a  soft  mist  rolling  along  the 
river.  By  the  blaze  of  Phelan's  one  door-lamp 
Randal  caught  sight  of  Art's  back  in  the  bar, 
with  Roddy  Duncan's  bright  face  beside  it. 

He  slung  through  the  township  full-speed, 
took  the  track  past  the  Creek  to  the  Lion,  and 
learnt  from  Fysh  that  Ormond  was  three  miles 
off  with  Father  Denis.  He  turned  then,  with 
wrath  on  his  mouth;  rode  back,  and  flushed 
Ormond  in  the  smoke  of  the  priest's  little 
room. 

"That  young  box-man  of  yours  is  with  Art 
Scannell  in  Phelan's  bar,"  he  said.  "I've 
learnt  something  of  Art  this  last  week,  and  I 
know  he'll  mess  Roddy  up  pretty  quick.  Bet- 
ter put  a  spoke  in  his  wheel,  hadn't  you?" 

Ormond  knew  Randal  as  a  gentleman  may 
know  a  station-hand.  He  put  down  his  pipe. 

"Who  sent  you  down  to  tell  me  that?"  he 
demanded. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      37 

"That's  my  business.  Your  business  is  to 
look  after  your  men — that  is,  if  you  consider 
your  responsibilities  at  all." 

"Please  don't  apologise  for  teaching  me  my 
responsibilities,"  said  Ormond. 

"Don't  mean  to.  Are  you  going  to  rope  in 
Roddy,  or  are  you  not?" 

Ormond  blinked  across  at  the  other  as  he 
stood,  straight  and  lean,  in  the  door,  with  the 
rain  on  his  yellow  oil-skins,  and  his  hard  face 
grey  with  cold.  Then  he  got  up  and  spoke  as 
no  man  of  Randal's  birth  had  spoken  to  him 
these  fifteen  years.  Father  Denis  clapped  his 
fat  hands  on  his  knees. 

"An*  ye're  all  right,  then,  the  pair  ov  ye. 
Thrust  ye  tu  know  a  man  when  ye  sees 
him,  Ormond.  Bring  him  along  tu  the 
fire;  an'  shut  the  dure,  for  it's  cowld  enough 
to  freeze  tin  regimints  on  us.  There's  a 
chair  goin'  beggin' — ye'll  have  whisky,  Mr. 
Randal?" 

Randal's  nerve  forsook  him.  In  the  colonies 
no  work  is  derogatory  to  a  man  unless  he 
makes  it  so.  He  may  clean  pig-sties,  and  the 
friends  of  his  college  days  will  not  forsake  him; 
but  to  take  the  first  step  down  the  ladder  which 
few  climb  again,  must  and  does  lose  him  touch 
with  his  class.  This  is  the  inexorable  law. 
Randal  was  half-way  down  that  ladder  long 
since,  and  the  fierce  passion  which  swept  Effie 
Scannell  on  its  tide  might  never  bear  him  up- 


38      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

ward  in  this  world.  But  the  taste  of  the  old 
years  dried  his  mouth  and  blinded  his  eyes  as 
Ormond  brought  Navy-cut,  and  decanters  that 
sparkled,  and  pushed  a  cushioned  chair  where 
the  firelight  shone.  He  sloughed  his  pride  with 
his  oil-skins,  and  sat  down.  But  his  tongue 
was  dumb,  and  Ormond  guessed  why,  with  a 
sudden  pity  and  shame.  Father  Denis  sailed 
down-wind  breezily. 

"Bedad;  ye're  jist  the  man  I'm  wantin'  the 
handlin'  ov  this  long  while,"  he  said. 

"How  so?"  Randal's  voice  showed  sus- 
picion on  the  undertow. 

"Ye're  strong.  That  boy  there's  another." 
He  jerked  a  fat  thumb  at  Ormond.  "Ye're 
both  good  men  in  yer  hand " 

"You  mistake,"  said  Randal,  sharply.  "I'm 
a  hand  myself." 

"Blathers!  A  strong  man  houlds  men  all 
over  the  worrld  an'  back  agin.  An'  ye  can  git 
where  I  can't  git,  Randal.  Intu  Blake's  bar- 
parlour " 

"You'd  not  find  much  you  cared  for  there." 

"I'd  find  men."  He  blew  smoke  from  his 
nostrils,  and  his  big  heart  shone  in  his  eyes. 
"I'm  wantin'  men,"  he  said. 

Ormond's  grin  showed  the  white  teeth 
gripped  on  the  pipe-stem. 

"Men  like  Lou  Birot — and  Jimmie  Blaine 
— and  Rogers?"  he  suggested. 

"I'm  wid  ye,  entoirely.    Them  most  ov  all. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      39 

Ye'll  not  heal  a  wound  wid  the  splinter  stayin* 
in  it." 

"The  wound  has  bred  the  splinter." 

The  priest  looked  at  Randal  quickly. 

"Begorra;  that's  the  ould  riddle  ov  the  hin 
an'  the  egg.  We'll  not  ask  which  came  fust, 
then.  Bhut  we'll  thry  tu  get  the  splinter 
out." 

"You  never  will,"  said  Randal,  as  one  who 
knew. 

"Import  a  few  more  chuckers-out  made  on 
Murray's  last,"  murmured  Ormond. 

This  pricked  Randal's  flesh,  and  roused  him. 

"You  can  trust  most  communities  to  sift  the 
sound  from  the  rotten.  We  require  a  man  to 
ride  straight,  and  to  hit  straight,  and  to  live 
straight " 

"Ye  measure  the  last  distance  wid  a  mighty 
crooked  shtick,  then,"  said  Father  Denis,  dryly. 

Randal  reddened. 

"We  don't  ask  religion — or  sobriety — or  the 
outward  graces  of  speech.  But  a  man  who 
rides  and  hits  out  straight  can't  live  very 
crooked." 

"By  Jove,"  cried  Ormond,  "you've  nailed 
him  there!  Didn't  I  tell  you,  Father?  When 
we  see  a  man's  hand  shake  on  the  rifle-stock  or 
the  rein  we  mark  him  down  at  once.  For  we 
knew  him  in  his  youth.  But  the  tourists  who 
belt  through  New  Zealand,  giving  tongue,  and 
picking  up  stuff  as  they  run — they  go  back  and 


40      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

use  this  man  for  a  text,  not  knowing  that  he 
is  outside  the  pale  already." 

"An'  which  ov  us  have  the  right  tu  put  up 
the  pale?"  said  the  priest,  gravely. 

"The  men  do  it.  The  rotters  and  the  oth- 
ers— the  chaps  who  are  going  to  help  cook  the 
world's  pie  in  the  future.  But  the  tourist 
doesn't  know  anything  about  them." 

"It's  a  hot  fire  many  ov  thim  will  use  for  the 
bakin',"  said  Father  Denis,  his  eyes  on  Ran- 
dal's shut  hand  and  mouth. 

"I  believe  you.  They  will  be  the  men  who 
have  learnt  first-hand.  And  you  can't  learn 
anything  without  sweating  some  of  the  green- 
ness out  of  you  first.  The  men  who  learn  first- 
hand aren't  generally  sappy." 

"If  that  pie  has  no  taste  ov  burrn  tu  it, 
'twill  be  because  ye're  dead  fust,  Ormond. 
Crow  away  on  yer  dung  hill,  me  young 
cock.  It  is  not  the  worrld  will  be  throubled 
by  ye." 

Ormond  stood  up,  straddling  before  the  fire. 
His  shadow  fell  across  the  room  to  a  girl's  face 
on  the  wall.  That  face  was  Father  Denis' 
story.  It  had  taught  him  all  he  knew. 

"This  is  a  populous  farmyard,  and  it's  going 
to  be  noisier  than  you  think.  In  this  way.  It 
is  the  People  who  make  the  Colonies.  It  is  the 
Aristocracy  who  make  the  Old  World — and 
the  Laws.  Well,  the  People  stand  flat-foot 
upon  the  earth,  and  you  can't  upset  them,  be- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      41 

cause  they've  nothing  to  fall  off.  Can't  you 
see  the  pull  it  gives  them?" 

Randal  glanced  up  at  the  virile  face  and  the 
square  set  of  the  shoulders. 

"What  the  devil  does  it  matter,  anyway?" 
he  said.  "They  upset  themselves — into  their 
six  feet  of  soil — at  the  end.  Then  the  Aristoc- 
racy have  the  pull — with  a  well-dried  family 
vault." 

"We  do  something  toward  making  a  New 
World  first,  though.  The  kind  of  world  that 
doesn't  think  so  much  of  three  languages  and 
blue  blood  as  it  does  of  muscle  and  endurance 
and  the  old,  old  dogma  that  a  man  works  for 
himself  and  a  woman — one  woman." 

"It  will  be  a  stupider  world,"  said  Randal, 
frankly. 

"It  will  be  cleaner " 

Father  Denis  exploded,  flinging  back  his 
head  in  a  great  gust  of  laughter. 

"Ah,  git  away  wid  ye  an'  yer  politics,  Or- 
mond.  Ye'd  talk  the  head  off  the  Lion's  lift- 
poipe.  Faith,  ye've  got  in  wan  from  the  shoul- 
dher  that  toime,  Randal,  for  all  ye've  bin  sook- 
in'  silence  so  long." 

It  was  sight  of  Ormond  leaning  against  the 
mantel-shelf  with  its  old  china  and  heavy 
bronze  candle-sticks  that  suddenly  flicked  Ran- 
dal back  into  realisation.  Far  away — in  town 
— Ormond  was  yet  free  of  the  clubs  and  of 
ladies'  drawing-rooms.  His  own  feet  were  on 


42      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  track  up  which  there  is  no  returning.  And 
only  the  man  who  has  been  there  knows  what 
it  means  to  see  his  equal  above  him. 

He  stood  up  stiff  with  the  hardness  back  on 
his  face.  He  called  Ormond  "Sir"  in  a  sud- 
den defiance,  and  went  out  to  the  night  with 
his  shoulders  bowed  under  the  old  weight. 
Father  Denis  drew  at  his  pipe  in  a  long  silence. 
Ormond  said  blankly: 

"What  scared  him?" 

"Himsilf — an*  you."  The  priest's  eyes  fell 
on  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  other  man. 
"He'll  hate  ye  wan  ov  these  days — or  love  ye. 
Bhut  I'll  never  git  hould  of  him.  A  man  who 
has  fed  wid  the  beasts  ov  the  shtable  will  not 
come  back  tu  the  banquetin'-hall.  For  why? 
Because  it  wud  be  tu  'come  back/  " 


CHAPTER  III 

"RAININ'.  B'Gosh!  Rainin'  barrers  an' 
pitchforks." 

Tod  pulled  the  blankets  over  his  head  with 
a  sleepy  mutter,  and  another  blue  roll  three 
men  off  said  something  vivid  and  very  dis- 
tinct. Buck  sprang  upright,  his  goggle  eyes 
staring. 

"Rainin'.  Who  said  rainin'?"  He  stuck 
a  leg  under  the  tent-flap  and  drew  it  back  with 
a  yell.  "My  daisy ;  it's  torrantin' !  And  them 
bosses  in  the  yard.  We  can't  leave  them  bos- 
ses in  the  yard." 

Buck  loved  horses  better  than  himself  or 
any  other  man.  According  to  popular  super- 
stition he  had  been  one  at  the  beginning  of 
things.  There  are  certain  men  whom  the  ani- 
mals take  into  fellowship;  and  these  are  the 
only  men  who  do  not  attempt  to  explain  why. 

"Shut  yer  head,"  growled  Scott,  reaching  a 
boot,  and  loosing  it  with  insufficient  aim.  "  Jes' 
yer  lie  down  an'  see  ef  we  can't  leave  'em." 

It  was  Moody  who  caught  the  boot,  and  re- 
turned it  emphatically;  but  Buck's  speech  over- 
rode all  complaint. 

43 


44      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  hev  my  boss  harrered.  I'll 
take  him  up  ter  the  bush  -  " 

"By  the  Lord  Harry  —  here  —  scrag  him, 
somebody  -  " 

Came  a  quick  rustle  among  the  blankets  and 
chopped  tussock,  and  a  spurt  of  rain  across 
Danny's  face  where  he  lay  by  the  flap.  Then 
the  unbelieving  silence  of  the  men.  Lou  broke 
it.  He  leapt  for  the  opening. 

"Come  on,  you  fools.       He'll  do  it,  sure 


Steve  was  shouting  for  his  boots,  and  five 
pairs  of  feet  battered  Danny  as  they  passed 
him.  He  grabbed  the  last  ankle,  and  came 
out  with  it,  sending  a  wild  shout  before  him 
into  the  night.  In  the  eight-by-twelve  whare 
that  made  breakwind  for  the  tent  slept  Ted 
Douglas,  with  Randal  and  Mogger.  Douglas 
had  the  special  comprehensive  understanding 
of  the  ruler,  and  the  bunk  next  the  door  as 
well.  He  cast  on  coat  and  boots  with  his  senses 
half-waked,  passed  Conlon  at  the  first  creek, 
and  learned  essentials  by  one  curt  sentence 
flung  piece-meal. 

A  wild  half  -lit  sky  was  over  the  hills,  with 
straight  slivers  of  rain  pelting  through  it,  and 
a  giddy  dance  of  storm-clouds  red  above  the 
bush.  With  the  shout  of  the  wind  came  the 
grunt  of  flying  Paradise  duck  and  the  peculiar 
whish  of  blown  birch-leaves.  A  tossing  cab- 
bage-tree marked  out  the  yard-gate;  and,  head 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      45 

down,  the  boys  swung  for  it,  unspeaking  as  a 
pack  of  hounds  in  sight  of  the  kill.  Sleet  mixed 
with  the  sleep  in  their  eyes,  and  Danny  lost 
both  boots  in  the  moss  of  a  spring-head.  They 
were  stiff,  each  and  each,  with  the  saddle  and 
with  bruises ;  for  in  rough  country  a  stockman 
takes  falls  in  the  work  of  most  days;  and  well 
they  know  that  not  one  man,  though  that  man 
should  be  Buck,  would  hold  thirteen  horses 
when  Nature  was  angry. 

Down  the  acre-wide  yard  swept  the  horses, 
like  ghosts  without  sound  or  shape.  Be- 
hind, Buck  was  mad  as  the  grey  mare  he 
straddled.  The  swing  of  her  body  and  the 
smell  of  wet  hair  made  him  drunk  with  the 
joy  of  it,  and  he  brought  his  mob  to  the 
gate  with  the  longing  for  freedom  clutch- 
ing him  too. 

The  gate  swung  in  the  wind,  and  Lou  caught 
it  as  Ike's  cob  struck  it  full  with  his  chest.  The 
rebound  cast  Lou  three  yards  down  the  track 
where  the  pack-horse  pinched  his  arm  with  a 
hind-shoe  as  it  jumped  him.  Lou  twisted; 
snatched  at  a  mane  that  blew  in  his  face, 
gripped  the  nostril ;  the  mane ;  forced  the  bridle 
he  carried  between  the  teeth  and  over  the  ears, 
and  came  up  astride,  with  the  check-strap  flap- 
ping. The  men  were  gasping  and  giddy  as 
they  saw,  and  Tod  spoke  for  them  all  when  he 
said: 

"Sure  the  divil  is  a  swate  kind  frind  to  Lou. 


46      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

A  or'nary  good  man  wud  Vgot  the  neck  broke 
off  of  him." 

Lou  loosed  his  belt,  and  brought  it  down  on 
the  rump.  He  slung  past  them  as  a  bullet 
from  the  rifle,  and  headed  the  rush  on 
the  lip  of  the  bush.  Then  the  grey  dawn 
was  pin-pricked  by  shouts  and  waving 
arms  and  the  hiss  and  crackle  of  whips. 
The  roar  and  the  rain-beat  dazed  and  cowed 
the  mob.  The  corners  were  turned  in, 
each  on  each,  and  Lou  belted  the  last- 
comer  into  the  yard  with  his  strap.  Then 
he  came  over  the  fence  with  his  voice 
too  soft. 

"Where  is  Buck?"  he  said. 

Danny  sniggered,  carrying  a  drowned  boot 
in  either  hand. 

"Where  wud  he  be  like  ter  be  but  promen- 
adin'  inter  the  bush,  an'  stayin'  there?  He's 
permiskious  enough  ter  see  as  we  ain't  pleased 
wi'  him,  if  he  is  dotty." 

Douglas  swept  up  an  armful  of  dead  manu- 
ka and  led  the  way  to  the  hut.  Here,  while 
the  water  ran  off  them,  the  boys  turned  about 
and  about  before  the  fire  that  raged  up  the  tin 
chimney  to  the  dawn-sky,  and  Randal  extract- 
ed a  mic-a-mic  thorn  from  Danny's  big  toe  to 
the  tune  of  a  half -hundred  cheerful  jokes.  Lou 
fed  the  fire  just  below  the  swinging  billy,  and 
once  he  said : 

"Buck  will  go  home,  I  suppose.    He  knows 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      47 

we're  clearing  Black  Hill  to-day;  but  he  won't 
come  along  to  the  party." 

"Yes,  he  will,"  said  Mogger  suddenly. 
"Buck's  all  sorts  of  a  fool  but  a  funk.  He'll 
carry  his  swag  in  all  right — an'  what  are  we 
goin'  ter  do  ter  him?" 

Lou  sat  back  on  his  heels,  whistling  softly. 
Ted  Douglas  turned  on  him. 

"You'll  not  mess  wi'  the  boy  on  yer  own, 
Lou,"  he  said. 

"You'll  mind  your  own  business,  perhaps," 
suggested  Lou,  sweetly. 

"I  am.  Buck's  ter  my  charge.  He's  a 
id  jit  clean  through;  but  he'll  come  up  ter  his 
whippin'  like  a  good  sheep-pup.  And  it  ain't 
you  ter  give  it " 

"Want  to  kill  him  yourself?"  asked  Lou 
with  a  delicate  sneer. 

"We  all  wants  ter  kill  him,"  explained 
Moody.  "And  we're  all  goin'  ter.  But  not 
the  same  way  as  yer'd  do  it." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Lou,  lightly. 

Ted  Douglas  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets. 

"If  you  goes  hurtin'  Buck,  I'll  sack  you,"  he 
said  slowly. 

Lou's  lip  upturned  from  his  even  teeth;  but 
no  man  saw  his  eyes.  He  stooped  to  the  fire 
again. 

"It  sounds  so  well  to  write  a  big  cheque, 
doesn't  it?  But  it's  better  to  remember  that  it 


48      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

might  possibly  be  dishonoured  at  headquar- 
ters." 

"It's  you  as  is  more  likely  ter  be  dishon- 
oured," said  Douglas  in  sudden  wrath. 

Lou  came  to  his  feet  with  a  face  that  brought 
three  men  between  him  and  the  other.  Danny 
laughed,  rocking  on  the  bunk. 

"Can't  yer  stand  chiackin'  yet,  Lou?  Wi* 
all  the  efforts  I've  taken  to  substantiate  yer  in 
it,  too!  Ike,  put  some  tea  inter  that  billy,  and 
guv  me  a  drink,  for  I'm  fair  climaxed  wi  my- 
self." 

But  a  half -hour  later,  when  they  got  to  sad- 
dle with  wet  oilskins  abroad  in  the  wind, 
Danny  muttered  to  Mogger: 

"Ted'll  pay  for  that.  Pay  through  the  nose, 
he  will.  Lou  is  darnation  clever." 

Mogger  glanced  at  a  little  cramped  figure 
atop  of  a  big  bony  roan.  He  hoped  that  Lou 
would  hit  there  when  the  chance  came.  For — 
saving  always  Ted  Douglas — no  man  on 
Mains  had  any  love  for  Jimmie. 

When  man  first  put  foot  on  her  the  Back- 
Country  made  some  rules  and  she  had  kept 
them.  They  that  serve  her  shall  love  her,  for 
she  will  have  no  divided  tribute.  In  their  strong 
youth  they  must  take  her  yoke  gladly;  nor 
may  they  bend  under  it  nor  break.  And  in 
return  she  gives  them  little  rest  and  much  dan- 
ger, and — many  times — death.  She  gives  too 
the  power  to  be  steadfast  against  self — which 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      49 

is  the  greatest  power  of  all;  and  the  child- 
wisdom  that  finds  joy  in  the  Little  Things  that 
lie  along  every  track.  And  that  is  why  the 
hills-men  can  play  with  the  rocks  and  the  big 
bush  and  the  mountain  rivers,  and  then  go 
down  and  take  the  townships  to  pieces  in  a 
gaiety  of  heart  which  an  occasional  night  in 
the  lock-up  does  not  dim. 

A  savage  day's  work  rode  with  the  boys  over 
the  downs  and  up  cutting  by  cutting.  From 
the  receiving  paddocks,  two  round  miles  from 
the  hut,  the  cry  of  already  pent  cattle  blew 
down  wind,  and  the  throb  of  impatient  hoofs 
below  it  was  over-like  the  beat  of  far-distant 
surf.  On  the  down-top  Ted  Douglas  slung 
the  chase  clear  for  the  snows  where  they  blank- 
etted  the  gnarled  ranges  and  peaks.  Tod  and 
Jimmie  swept  in  the  van,  flinging  coarse  jokes 
which  Lou  tossed  back  tipped  with  venom  that 
no  man  but  Randal  had  wit  to  see.  And  Ran- 
dal's mind  was  on  sharper  things.  A  man  may 
walk  blind  where  the  scent  of  roses  pull  his 
senses,  until  a  chance  thorn-prick  opens  his 
eyes  to  the  knowledge  that  he  is  on  forbidden 
ground.  But  Randal  had  broken  into  the  gar- 
den wilfully,  and  well  he  knew  the  smart  of  the 
thorns  among  the  roses.  He  lifted  his  head 
to  the  free  wind  beating  down  from  God's  own 
snows,  and  the  sting  of  it  eased  him.  For  Na- 
ture in  storm  knows  how  to  comfort  her  son 
when  his  soul  is  in  storm  also. 


50      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Through  manuka-scrub  and  savage  mata- 
kuri  the  track  lay  to  Black  Hill,  where  it  rose 
behind  the  rain ;  stark  with  bare  rock,  and  rot- 
ten with  papa,  and  slippery  with  blue  tussock 
that  lay  flat  to  the  wind.  One  by  one  the  boys 
swarmed  it,  as  white  ants  swarm  a  wall;  rid- 
ing headlong  up  the  dried  water-courses, 
swinging  aside  from  the  sky-flung  bluffs,  and 
taking  each  man  his  separate  beat,  with  the 
rain  spurting  off  his  oil-skins,  and  the  wet  gear 
harsh  in  his  hands. 

Above  the  cry  of  startled  duck  and  the  oc- 
casional anger  of  a  kea,  rocketted  the  stock- 
whip talk  as  the  lashes  licked  after  the  heav- 
ing flanks.  From  the  sheltered  lea  of  great 
bluffs  they  started  the  cattle;  from  age-hol- 
lowed limestone  caves ;  from  deep  guts  ripped 
out  by  water-spouts  and  yet  pallid  with  snow 
in  the  meadows,  and  from  little  gully-bottoms 
where  the  drowned  scrub  baptised  them  into 
new  pains  and  sorrows.  Scott  strained  his 
colt's  stifle  on  a  shingle  slip  where  he  tried  to 
prevent  a  stampede,  and  Mogger  put  out  his 
elbow  when  he  left  the  saddle  in  a  blind  creek. 
But  he  pulled  it  in  again  by  aid  of  a  stirrup- 
leather,  and  collared  his  bolting  mob  on  the 
slope  below. 

Beyond  a  patch  of  mic-a-mic  Ted  Douglas 
saw  a  horseman  whom  he  had  not  sent.  He 
stood  in  the  stirrups  with  the  rain  blowing 
across  him. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      51 

"Buck,"  he  shouted. 

Buck  came,  his  blank  face  more  blank  than 
before. 

"I  got  a  cow  and  a  calf  over  there,"  he  said. 

Douglas  grinned.  No  man  argued  with 
Buck.  As  a  horsebreaker  he  was  the  pride  of 
both  Islands.  Beyond  that  he  was  a  child,  and 
all  true  men  gave  him  gentleness  therefor. 

"Whale  away  at  'em  then,  an'  kip  clear  o' 
Lou.  He'll  get  his  knife  into  you  if  he  can." 

"I  jes  wanted  ter  take  the  bosses  out'r  the 
rain,"  explained  Buck,  and  rode  on. 

But  Lou  was  looking  for  stronger  meat  that 
day.  There  was  Douglas  to  pay  for  words 
said  some  hours  back.  And,  by  the  nature  of 
a  man,  he  cannot  forgive  evil  truth,  though  the 
evil  of  lies  may  not  touch  him. 

To  the  heel  of  the  day  they  worked ;  soaked 
and  rain-beat;  riding  each  man  with  his  life 
in  the  hand  that  carried  his  rein,  and  watch- 
ing eternally  for  the  spear-glint  of  horns  and 
the  skin-flash  through  loose  bush  and  crowd- 
ing manuka. 

Near  sunset,  when  the  storm  gave  to  a  scar- 
let evening  of  blown  clouds  and  clucking  wind, 
Lou  found  his  chance  and  took  it.  Where  a 
humped  spur  ran  clear  into  the  western  sky 
Jimmie  cautiously  wheeled  his  mob,  bringing 
them  back,  slow-paced.  Lou,  on  the  breast  of 
the  hill  above,  looked  down  to  see  deep  gullies 
either  side  the  spur  and  the  gleam  of  rock- 


52      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

bound  water  at  bottom.  The  blue  glint  that  all 
men  hated  shot  into  his  eyes  as  he  rounded  his 
own  haul  with  haste.  They  were  a  mixed  haul : 
two-year-olds,  poddies  and  pikers;  a  half- 
dozen  moth-eaten  mothers,  and  a  scrub  bull  of 
ten  years  which  had  never  been  branded.  Lou 
had  played  with  him  all  down  the  hill,  putting 
a  blind  deviltry  into  him  with  the  lash,  and  the 
sweat  and  foam  mixed  with  the  blood  on  his 
quarters.  Skilfully,  and  unseen,  Lou  switched 
the  drive  on  to  Jimmie's  spur,  and  drew  in  to 
watch  developments.  And  in  all  the  hush  of 
sky  washing  round  the  bare  scrubby  spur,  and 
the  jutting  breast  of  the  hill,  there  was  only 
the  dry  clack  of  hoofs,  and  the  great  bell-note 
of  the  red  piker  as  he  shouldered  through  the 
young  bulls  and  the  cows. 

With  dust  to  guard  and  cover  them  the 
frightened  mob  broke  down  the  tussock  for  the 
spur-tip.  Above  Lou  four  men  came  into 
sight  on  the  hill-top.  Lou  laughed.  The 
game  was  not  then  for  him  only.  A  choice  lay 
with  Jimmie.  Had  it  been  another  man  there 
would  have  been  no  choice;  but  Lou,  sitting 
easy  in  the  saddle,  knew  the  fall  of  the  die  be- 
fore it  was  thrown. 

The  roar  and  crackle  of  broken  scrub  blew 
out  on  the  wind.  A  dead  rimu  jarred  when 
the  crush  struck  it.  The  toss  of  glinting  horns 
and  white  spume  made  foam  above  the  billow- 
ing backs.  Stray  cabbage-trees  and  low 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      53 

whanae-clumps  sifted  and  parted  them;  and 
here  the  determination  of  a  twelve-foot  whip 
could  block  and  swing  a  hundred — two  hun- 
dred— with  the  coming  army  to  help. 

Mogger  was  roaring  from  the  scarp  above. 
Ike,  standing  in  his  stirrups,  whistled  frantic 
appeals.  Then  Ted  Douglas  pelted  past  head- 
long. Lou  took  some  payment  at  sight  of  his 
face. 

Nakedly  in  sight  of  his  fellows,  the  coward 
in  Jimmie  fought  with  his  training.  He  fell 
back  from  his  own  mob  where  it  stopped,  paw- 
ing earth  uneasily.  He  pulled  the  reins  this 
way  and  the  other;  beat  his  mare;  wrenched 
her  back.  Once  he  swung  out  his  whip,  but 
it  dropped  unspeaking. 

Lives  out-back  are  run  on  the  army  lines, 
and  a  man  who  fears  his  enemy — -be  it  bucking 
horse  or  charging  cattle  or  a  plough  in  stony 
ground — takes  something  of  the  grade  of  a 
deserter  in  battle.  Ted  Douglas  knew  it.  He 
had  seen  men  out-casts  on  the  cattle-camp  be- 
fore this  day.  Jimmie  knew  it.  But  his 
tongue  was  dried  leather  in  his  mouth,  and  his 
hands  turned  clammy  on  the  reins.  Down  the 
hog-backed  spur  he  saw  Douglas  coming,  and 
the  chill  air  bore  a  shout  with  a  prayer  in  it. 
The  charging  mob  crashed  into  the  loafers, 
bunched  and  turned  them,  and  the  red,  roaring 
thunder  swerved  away  to  the  right.  Along 
the  very  lip  of  the  gully  Douglas  was  coming, 


54      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

his  old  bay  full-extended.  His  spurs  dripped 
blood,  and  his  bitten  lip  was  blood-spotted.  On 
the  brink  the  red  piker  pulled  up  with  a  jerk 
and  a  bellow  that  broke  to  a  scream  as  the  mob 
behind  swamped  him  and  pitched  over  with 
him. 

On  the  hill-side  Scott  was  left  in  charge  of 
ninety  head,  whilst  six  men  tore  down  the  spur, 
slung  their  reins  to  the  scrub  on  the  rim,  and 
went  over  to  the  cold  dusk  made  awful  by  the 
rage  of  mad  brutes  in  the  hand  of  death.  For 
a  full  hour  they  strove  in  the  slippery  rock- 
bottoms  ;  giving  the  keen  knife  to  those  beyond 
help,  gentling  and  beating  the  rest  up  to  the 
gathering  night  on  the  ranges.  Then  came 
the  wet  saddles  again,  and  the  fierce  alert  ring- 
ing and  wheeling  and  flogging  that  brought 
all  at  last  to  the  jaws  of  the  paddocks  far  down 
on  the  flat.  Jimmie  said  once  to  Douglas: 

"I — I  couldn't  help  it."  And  Douglas  made 
answer: 

"You'll  have  the  chanst  to  say  that  to-night, 
I  reckon.  Git  down  to  your  work  now." 

Scannell's  boys  knew  how  to  give  and  how 
to  take.  They  usually  did  both  crisply; 
rounding  off  the  episode,  and  casting  it  behind 
them  as  a  thing  past.  But  first  was  the  day's 
work  to  hold  up  to  the  end;  and  the  boys  were 
saddle-stiff  and  weary  and  sweating  before 
the  gates  swung  close  and  the  last  weaner  cried 
inside  the  bars. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      55 

Jimmie's  punishment  had  gathered  in  inten- 
sity as  the  sting  of  a  black  icy  night  folded 
round,  to  find  each  man  unresting  yet,  and 
empty  with  hunger.  And  through  the  dark 
and  the  aching  exhaustion  more  than  shame 
dogged  Ted  Douglas. 

For  every  head  of  stock  and  every  inch  of 
brown  earth  on  Mains  was  dear  to  him,  and 
this  night  he  doubted  for  the  first  time  whether 
or  no  Jimmie  was  dearer  still. 

The  boys  rode  back  to  camp  unspeaking. 
They  fed  in  silence  until  Lou  gave  the  lead 
from  where  he  lay  in  a  bunk,  his  eyes  eager,  his 
long  lithe  limbs  at  ease.  The  sternness  of  com- 
ing judgment  was  on  the  other  men  to  make 
them  awkward  and  dumb,  and  into  the  tense- 
ness Lou  slid  his  cool  voice. 

"Any  fellow  going  to  ask  Jimmie  ques- 
tions?" 

"There's  lots  of  men  can't "  began 

Douglas ;  but  Randal's  speech  cut  the  words. 

"You're  out  of  this,  I  think,  Douglas.  Jim- 
mie has  lost  Mains  twenty  head  of  cattle,  and 
it's  he  who  has  to  answer  for  it." 

Danny  was  a  Heaven-built  peacemaker. 
He  took  his  teeth  from  a  hunk  of  bread, 
saying: 

"Leave  it  till  ter-morrer,  yer  peripatetics, 
can't  yer?  We  ain't  none  on  us  up  ter  ancient 
hist'ry  ter-night." 

Jimmie  spoke  from  the  candle-box  near  the 


56      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

fire.  His  unhallowed  wit  had  given  him  a  cer- 
tain holding  among  the  boys,  but  they  had  no 
ears  for  it  to-night.  There  was  no  loop-hole 
in  this  disgrace  which  had  come  upon  Mains, 
and  no  flicker  of  fun  on  any  face  beside  Lou's. 
Lou  sat  up  and  flung  the  stone. 

"I'll  lend  my  blanket  for  thirty  pitches,"  he 
said. 

Ted  Douglas  gasped  where  he  stood  behind 
Jimmie,  his  strong  bony  face  white  under 
sweat  that  had  not  been  wiped  away.  Buck 
shivered. 

"Thirty'd  tear  the  inside  out'r  him,"  he  said. 
"I  had  it  done  ter  me  wonst  up  North — an'  that 
was  on'y  twenty.  But  I  didn't  hev  no  stum- 
mick  fur  a  week." 

Jimmie  was  using  talk  that  brought  all  the 
men  to  their  feet.  Lou  sprang  up. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said.  "Bring  him  out- 
side. It's  starlight." 

"Ted— Ted— stop  them " 

Steve  gathered  Jimmie  in  his  great  arms. 

"He  can't  answer  fur  yer  no  more,  Jim- 
mie," he  said.  "Yer  playin'  off  yer  own  bat 
ter-night." 

Ted  Douglas  ruled  his  life  by  the  ethics  of 
fairplay.  But  it  was  needful  for  Randal  to 
block  him  at  this  moment.  | 

"You  can't  stop  it,  Douglas,"  he  said.  "Stay 
in  here,  if  you  like;  but  they're  going  to  take 
it  out  of  Jimmie  to-night.  If  Lou  had 


brought  along  his  whip  they'd  have  used 
it." 

Then  he  went  out  and  shut  the  door. 

Randal  had  neither  hate  nor  pity  for  his 
kind.  He  saw  the  justice  in  this,  and  stood 
by  in  the  cold  bright-starred  night;  but  he 
gave  no  help,  nor  yet  any  hindrance.  Sheer 
behind  the  whare  the  bush  rose  up  to  the  sky. 
The  babble  of  a  creek  two  yards  off  mixed  with 
the  distant  roar  of  the  shingle  river  and  the 
low  brush  of  horses  cropping  long  grass.  The 
little  sod  whare  was  sallow  in  the  faint  light. 
Each  step  and  word  rang  in  the  frosty  air. 
But  there  was  no  mercy  for  Jimmie  in  the 
night,  nor  in  the  faces  and  the  quick  hands 
about  him. 

Within,  Ted  Douglas  stood  against  the  nar- 
row chimney-shelf,  his  head  down  on  his  arms. 
Originally,  blanket-tossing  is  a  school-boy 
trick;  but  the  fun  goes  out  of  it  very  swiftly 
when  a  man  is  delivered  to  the  punishment. 
Each  soul  is  made  dual  that  it  may  under- 
stand other  souls  if  it  will;  and  if  the  man  ki 
Ted  Douglas  stood  firm  for  the  honour 
of  Mains,  the  woman  in  him  shook  at 
foreknowledge  of  Jimmie's  pain.  Through 
the  shut  door  came  the  shout  of  the  old- 
time  furmula.  First  Scott's  voice,  loud 
and  clear: 

"Who  lost  twenty  head  o'  cattle  fur  Scan- 
nell?" 


58      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Then  a  full-bodied  shout  of  "Jimmie!"  a 
gasping  wait,  a  thud,  and  Scott's  voice  again. 

Lou  sat  on  a  dead  tree,  watching  the  hard 
faces  in  the  starshine.  And,  having  more  than 
ordinary  perceptions,  he  knew  that  in  the 
dumbness  of  the  whare  someone  suffered 
more  than  Jimmie.  At  the  second  pitch 
Jimmie  was  cursing.  By  the  sixteenth  sobs 
and  prayers  galloped  together,  and  Danny 
said: 

"A  lot  of  sense  there  is  in  takin*  the  use  out 
o'  him,  isn't  there?  Give  him  one  more  fur 
luck,  yer  galapods,  an'  be  done  with  it." 

"Nineteen,"  said  Mogger,  and  Scott  took  up 
the  burden  again. 

It  was  a  scream  of  agony  that  brought 
Douglas  out  with  a  face  that  the  boys  did  not 
know. 

"For  God's  sake— stop  it — stop  it!  Or 
chuck  me  ef  you  want  to  kill  someone." 

Mogger  grinned  with  his  hard  hands  gripped 
on  the  blanket. 

"He's  takin'  his  gruel  alone  ter-night,  Ted," 
he  said.  "There  ain't  no  use  in  yer  comin' 
along  wi'  the  spoon.  We'll  give  him  every  bit 
he  kin  carry— there's  more  blankets  ef  this  one 
don't  hold." 

All  was  done  with  in  time,  and  Jimmie  lay 
on  the  frosty  earth,  helplessly  sea-sick.  Lou 
chased  the  pitiful  Danny  before  him  to  the 
tent. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      59 

"Don't  you  fret,"  he  said.  "Jimmie'll  sleep 
in  Ted's  bunk  to-night." 

And  Jimmie  did.  But  Ted  Douglas  sat 
staring  at  the  dead  fire-ash  until  dawn-break, 
and  twice  a  man  roused  in  the  night  to  hear 
Lou  laughing  like  a  child  in  his  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"DAYLIGHT,  boys!    Day-li-ight 

"Ut  is  Moody  this  toime,"  cried  Tod,  and 
he  waked  with  a  snort.  "Will  ye  be  afther 
givin'  him  to  me,  then,  for  I'm  wantin'  to  kill 
the  ould  head  off  him,  sure?" 

But  it  was  Ted  Douglas  who  roused  them 
out  headlong;  who  chased  them  with  their  gear 
to  the  yard,  and  clipped  their  feeding-time 
close  at  each  end.  At  no  hour  was  there  give 
or  take  in  Ted  Douglas  when  work  lay  to 
hand.  The  boys  knew  and  accepted  this,  and 
themselves  gave  tongue  with  him  against  a 
shirker.  By  this  knowledge  they  read  Ted's 
curt  words  when  Jimmie  hauled  his  cob 
through  the  gate. 

"You're  not  wantin'  yer  boss  this  mornin', 
Jimmie.  Go  an'  rake  up  sticks  fur  the  fires." 

Then  he  flung  himself  into  the  leather,  and 
gave  the  lead  through  the  long  dewy  tussock 
that  wiped  the  dried  blood  from  the  spur. 

Scott  took  on  six  bets  before  the  crowd  had 
homed  to  the  saddles.  He  believed  indubit- 
ably that  Ted  would  shield  Jimmie  this  day 
and  the  next — and  all  the  other  days  to  come. 

60 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      61 

"But  he'll  sweat  for  it  if  he  do,"  he  said, 
combing  his  matted  whip-lash  through  his  fin- 
gers. "Playin'  low-down  on  Mains,  that  is." 

"An*  what  fur  you?"  cried  Danny  in  wrath. 
"What  fur  you  as  is  on'y  sober  when  yer's  card 
playin',  an'  on'y  workin'  when  Ted's  got  his 
toe  inter  the  back  of  yer?  You  ter  talk  o'  low- 
down!" 

Steve  split  the  waking  quarrel  with  the 
wedge  of  body  and  tongue. 

"It's  a  tough  knot  fur  Ted  ter  chop  through 
anyways,"  he  said.  "He's  got  ter  tell  Scan- 
nell  as  Jimmie's  a  rotter — an'  he  does  love  Jim- 
mie  as  some  chaps  loves  a  gel — or  he's  got  ter 
guv  Mains  a  chanst  o'  more  muckin'  when 
there  comes  a  tight  corner  again.  But  Ted'll 
tell  Scannell." 

"Bein'  Ted  I  won't  say  you're  wrong,"  said 
Conlon.  "But  it'll  cut  the  heart  out  of 
him.  And  nine  men  out  of  ten  wouldn't  do 
it." 

Conlon  had  come  to  this  work  for  sheer  love 
of  it,  as  many  another  has  done  and  will  do. 
He  knew  every  head  of  stock  was  sacred  to 
Ted  Douglas,  for  he  too  had  given  all  that  he 
had  in  payment  for  the  serving  of  it. 

"Bedad,  ut's  ter'ble  onplaisant  to  be  the  tinth 
man,"  remarked  Tod,  fighting  with  his  young 
filly  as  she  twisted  head-and-tail.  "He's  apt 
to  have  all  the  sentiments  an'  set-ups  as  belong 
be  rights  to  the  others  too.  An*  ut's  a  quare 


62      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

old  stomach-ache  they  do  be  gettin*  in  their 
conscience  o'  toimes!" 

Then  his  filly  took  charge  and  raced  with 
him  into  the  puffs  of  mist  that  lay  on  the 
heights. 

Scannell's  receiving  paddocks  lay  over 
three  spurs  and  a  rock-ridge  and  two  gullies. 
Danny  explained  this  once  in  the  township. 

"The  arcumtect  as  was  given  the  job  o' 
makin*  Mains  had  a  high  'pinion  o'  hisself,"  he 
said.  "An'  he  was  allers  tryin'  ter  git  ter  the  top 
o'  it.  That's  why  there  ain't  as  much  flat  on 
Mains  as  yer  cud  iron  yer  tombstone  shirt  on." 

Lossin  suggested  that  the  flat  had  got  into 
the  Mains  men  instead,  and  Tod,  who  assisted 
at  the  after-result,  gave  Danny  all  the  praise 
that  was  due  to  science  and  wind. 

Through  the  dark  shadows  and  the  white 
mist  and  the  shapeless  grey  clumps  of  manu- 
ka and  tutu  the  cattle  heard  the  sharp-spoken 
whip-talk,  and  the  crack  of  branches  as  the 
horses  crashed  through.  Uneasy  mutters 
pricked  each  little  group ;  the  bulls  stood  apart, 
great  heads  low,  eyes  and  ears  alert,  and  a 
swift  fore-foot  pawing  the  earth.  Then  wean- 
er,  cow,  and  scrubber  broke  all  ways,  taking 
shingle  slip  and  riven  flint  and  tussock  un- 
erringly, and  sending  their  bellowing  fury 
down  the  wind  to  drown  the  gay  mock  of  the 
stock-whips. 

The  white  starshine  gave  to  pale  amber, 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      63 

to  pink,  to  the  first  blue  of  the  sky.  On  the 
naked  spurs  that  sprang  out  from  the  hill, 
leading  straight  down  to  the  branding-yard 
square,  red,  white,  black  dots  were  cast  out, 
as  a  child  flings  beads  that  roll  apart,  and  to- 
gether, and  mix,  and  tear  ever  toward  the  bot- 
tom. Scannell  saw  them  come,  with  sheen  of 
hides  and  of  horns,  and  all  sounds  faint  and 
blended  as  the  changes  of  the  dawn.  By  the 
yards  Scannell  sat  his  cob  stiffly.  He  had 
grown  grey  at  this  game  for  the  love  of  it,  and 
the  old  lust  drew  him  out  to  each  muster  with 
an  ache  in  the  arm  that  would  wheel  no  more 
scrubbers  by  the  swing  of  a  twelve-foot  lash. 
It  was  a  new  generation  and  new  blood;  but 
they  played  the  same  old  game,  and  only  the 
man  who  has  trod  that  track  knows  the  joy 
of  it.  He  passes;  and  if  the  clay  under 
the  feet  of  the  next  man  is  knit  by  blood- 
cement,  none  ask  questions.  For  the  wind 
keeps  the  records,  and  the  sunshine,  and 
the  old,  old  grey  bitterns  that  cry  from  the 
flax-swamps. 

Down  the  spurs  Scannell  saw  them  coming, 
and  sounds  swelled  to  crackling  thunder,  and 
the  tossing  wild  river  took  shape.  Between 
two  unjoined  mobs  rode  Lou;  his  rein  loose 
as  he  swung  his  colt  with  the  knees,  and  the 
long  lash  licking  full  length  right  and  left, 
drawing  sullen  ones  in  until  the  parallels  met. 
The  boys  fed  more  streams  to  the  main,  and 


64      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  whole  hulk  took  the  slope  together  in  a 
grand  wild  break  that  stirred  Scannell's 
blood. 

By  the  yards  Jimmie's  fires  burnt  blue  in 
the  sunlight.  The  branding-muster  was  heavy 
work  on  Mains,  with  three  sets  of  irons  going 
at  once,  and  the  scrub-land  to  clean  up  when 
all  was  done.  The  wings  of  the  yard  stretched 
wide,  high,  and  unbending.  Unthinkingly 
Scannell's  fingers  closed  for  a  short  whip-han- 
dle that  was  not  there.  Then  he  pulled  his 
cob  back,  and  the  taste  of  his  years  was  in- 
sipid on  the  tongue,  for  there  was  no  salt  left 
in  them. 

The  very  air  sang  with  life  and  wide  sound, 
and  the  smell  of  new  blood,  and  sweat  and  cow- 
breath.  Conlon  was  mad  with  the  delight  of 
it,  and  Ted  Douglas  turned  reckless  Tod  from 
certain  death  by  a  well-delivered  cut  on  his 
mare's  quarter.  The  quickness  of  eye  and 
limb  on  a  foot-ball  field  falls  before  the  swift 
craft  of  the  stockman.  Scannell  drew  in  his 
breath  as  he  saw  the  boys  handle  the  run,  block- 
ing them,  ringing  them,  wheeling  them  ever 
nearer  and  nearer  with  swaying  bodies  and 
lashes  that  spun  dripping  red  in  the  light,  and 
cunning  horses  that  raced  and  swung  to  the 
knee-grip. 

An  angry  mother  chased  Moody  thrice 
round  the  yards.  He  brought  her  back  with 
some  sleeve  and  flesh  gone,  and  rode  in  the  first 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      65 

flight  thereafter  with  his  shirt-tail  bound  round 
his  forearm. 

The  leading  rush  struck  the  wing,  and  the 
jar  of  posts  sent  Jimmie's  heart  to  his  throat. 
The  boys  fastened  on  the  sweating  flanks  as 
flies  fasten ;  relentless,  unafraid ;  giving  no  inch 
when  a  piker  turned  at  charge,  or  a  silly  wean- 
er  dodged  between  a  hack's  forelegs.  And 
above  the  wild  talk  and  the  hoof -beats  and  the 
snarl  of  unresting  whips,  Ted  Douglas  held 
sway  yet:  assigning  place  by  the  crook  of  his 
arm;  hustling,  steadying,  leading  a  rush;  tell- 
ing a  man  off  to  ring  in  an  outcast,  and  draw- 
ing tighter  the  unbroken  rope  that  was  vivid, 
alert,  eager  life.  Steve  had  said  once  that 
Ted  Douglas  was  made  up  of  nerves  and  that 
each  nerve  had  a  separate  eye,  and  Tod  an- 
swered, smarting  under  deserved  chastisement : 

"Bedad;  some  of  thim  nerves  have  quare 
ould  muscles  to  them,  thin." 

Scannell  saw  his  head-man's  face  just  once, 
as  the  bay  mare  shot  past  with  Ted  stooped 
over  the  wither  and  the  threat  of  his  long  whip 
slung  out.  And  it  startled  him  for  the  pain 
that  under-lay  the  work-look.  Each  man  who 
engages  to  rule  over  men  takes  more  than  their 
bodies  under  his  power.  By  the  strength  of 
the  personality  which  makes  the  ruler,  his  men 
grow  to  dress  their  consciences  by  him,  and 
their  ideals,  and  many  things  that  go  to  make 
up  their  manhood.  Ted  Douglas  had  learned 


66      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

it  all  in  his  youth,  and  he  paid  for  it  this  day, 
full  tale.  And  there  lay  no  side-track  for  his 
feet  if  he  would  keep  Mains'  honour  un- 
smirched  in  the  eyes  of  the  boys. 

No  man  on  Mains  could  ride  the  bay  mare 
save  Ted  Douglas  only.  The  boys  of  that  day 
had  slung  him  on  her  back  when  she  was  raw, 
young  and  untamed  as  himself.  They  had 
broken  each  other  to  cattle-work,  and  taken 
their  falls  together  when  ways  were  rough ;  and 
not  a  stockman  from  Riverton  north  to  the 
Stour  could  wheel  a  breaking  piker  against  the 
pair. 

The  echoes  were  mad  among  the  black  spurs 
and  the  naked  scarps  and  the  long  slopes  where 
the  toi-toi  shook.  The  mid-day  pressed  its 
hot  hands  down  on  the  yards ;  and  through  the 
dust  and  the  weary  crying  of  weaners,  and  the 
bellow  and  stampede  of  furious  scrubbers,  the 
Mains  boys  yarded  their  muster,  slacked  girths, 
and  squatted  straightway  on  the  grass  with 
damper  and  floods  of  hot  tea.  They  were 
sweat-marked  and  blood-marked,  burnt  black 
to  the  shirt-line,  and  cheerful  as  the  moko- 
mokos  in  the  bush-corner  by  the  waterfall. 
Scannell  fed  them;  and  winks  flickered  the 
round  of  rough  faces  as  Ted  Douglas  talked 
technicalities  with  nothing  behind. 

"Hand  over  that  five  bob  you  owe  me,"  said 
Scott,  suddenly. 

Tod  knocked  aside  the  stretched  hand. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      67 

"Well,  I  niver,  an*  set  you  up !  Do  ye  think 
Ted  won't  be  backin'  up  to  the  brandin'-iron 
wid  the  divil  a — there!  Did  I  not  say  it?" 

Ted  Douglas  was  on  his  feet  before  Scan- 
nell.  He  did  not  see  Jimmie's  start,  and 
quick- whitened  face;  nor  Lou's  steady  gaze; 
nor  the  pulsing  of  the  pale  flames  beyond  Scan- 
nell's  head.  But  he  knew  all  these  things,  and 
he  toed  the  mark  with  his  head  up. 

"We  lost  twenty  beasts  on  Black  Hill  yes'- 
day,"  he  said.  "They  pitched  over  inter  a 
creek-bottom.  Near  all  young  steers  an* 
calves,  they  was." 

Scannell's  face  set  to  a  look  that  his  son  knew 
well. 

"Any  special  man's  fault?"  he  demanded. 

Scott  nudged  Ike  where  they  lay  arm  by  arm 
on  their  stomachs. 

"Doubles  er  quits?"  he  muttered. 

Ike  hit  out  at  him  loosely,  unlooking.  For 
the  whole  tide  of  his  half-baked  lumpish  youth 
set  with  reverence  and  puzzlement  toward 
Douglas. 

"They  broke  out  o*  hand  on  the  hill,"  said 
Ted  Douglas,  "from  Lou's  lot;  but  'tweren't 
his  fault.  I  tried  to  head  them,  an'  I  couldn't. 
An'  I  was  nearer  down  than  Lou." 

"Then  no  man  was  to  blame?"  asked  Scan- 
nell. 

Ted  answered  slowly;  and  the  shake  of  his 
voice  ran  through  each  man  that  he  governed. 


-.  68      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Yes.  There  was  a  chap  down  on  the  spur. 
He  orter  turned  them;  but — he  funked  it." 

Lou  smiled  a  very  little,  blinking  round  at 
the  tense  faces.  He  recognised  the  bitter,  un- 
bending tenets  of  duty  whereby  Ted  Douglas 
scourged  himself  and  his  men.  Scannell's  eyes 
were  not  good  to  see.  Always  he  had  ridden 
in  the  first  flight  in  the  old  days. 

"And  the  man  who  funked  was ?" 

"Jimmie  Blaine,"  said  Ted  Douglas,  and 
stood  unmoving,  his  hard  hands  shot  up  at  his 
sides,  and  the  whole  bright  earth  smudgy  be- 
fore him. 

"Was  he  out  with  you  this  morning?" 

"No.  I  couldn't  let  him  ride  for  Mains 
again." 

Scannell's  keen  eyes  met  Ted's  for  one  in- 
stant of  understanding. 

"You've  done  more  for  Mains  than  that," 
he  said.  "That'll  do.  Jimmie  Blaine!  Come 
over  here  a  minute." 

Scannell  sacked  Jimmie  in  three  pointed  sen- 
tences that  sent  the  boys  to  the  branding  with 
new  grit  to  bite  on,  and  amaze  in  their  souls. 

"I  believe  Ted  thinks  more  o'  Mains  then  he 
do  o'  Jimmie,"  cried  Moody,  goggle-eyed,  and 
scruffing  a  kicking  calf  for  the  iron.  "Thinks 
more  o'  Mains  then  he  do  o'  us!  He'd  tell  on 
us  if  he  reckoned  he  orter !  Us !" 

Lou  pressed  on  the  sizzling  iron,  and  the 
laugh  danced  up  in  his  eyes. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      69 

"Ted's  got  Scannell's  ear  to  the  tether's  end 
now,"  he  said.  "You  didn't  happen  to  remark 
that  Ted  Douglas  thought  more  of  Mains  than 
he  did  of  himself,  did  you?" 


CHAPTER  V 

"IT'S  about  time  you  came  down  for  them," 
said  Murray.  "I  ran  in  three  of  'em  Thurs- 
day night,  and  the  whole  gang  has  been  play- 
ing Old  Harry  to-day." 

Murray  had  been  making  particular  inves- 
tigation in  the  township ;  but  this  told  no  more 
than  Purdey  knew  already. 

"What  the  merry  springtime  can  you  ex- 
pect?" he  said.  "They've  had  a  savage  seven 
months  of  it  up  in  the  hills,  and  they  were  just 
sick  for  the  smell  of  the  township  again. 
They'll  work  up  to  the  knocker  once  I  rope  'em 
back  to  camp.  But  you  must  give  a  man  one 
chance  in  the  year  to  blue  his  cheque.  And  if 
you'll  just  shut  your  eyes  to  a  bit  of  lark- 
ing—" 

"Faith!  I've  had  to  shut  more  than  my  eyes 
already,  my  innocent!  They  have  been  paint- 
ing the  town  red  this  week-end,  and  shouting 
drinks  for  every  mother's  son  that  can  stand 
up  to  it.  There's  a  big  hairy  brute  with  one 
ear  gone " 

"Pug  Chancy?  Yes;  I  don't  think  he  would 
be  quite  your  style.  But  he's  a  first-flight  axe- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      71 

man,  Murray.  If  you  want  to  make  an  ex- 
ample of  some  of  'em  leave  me  him.  I  can't 
do  without  Pug." 

Beyond  Lonely  Hill  and  beyond  North-of- 
Sunday,  Purdey  contracted  the  working  of  the 
saw-mill  in  the  Big  Bush  for  Scannell.  The 
strait  years  through  he  ruled  near  a  hundred 
men,  all  told;  and  it  was  only  when  the  frost 
struck  the  heavy  snow  to  flint  for  perhaps  a 
clipped  week  in  the  winter,  or  again  when 
spring  floods  swamped  them  out,  that  Purdey's 
camp  ran  wild;  taking  payment  in  the  town- 
ship bars  for  lean  labour-filled  days,  and  grind- 
ing Murray  down  to  the  bed-rock  of  despera- 
tion and  profanity. 

"For  not  all  Mains  and  Behar  on  an  elec- 
tion-night— no,  nor  on  a  race-night,  either — 
can  see  the  way  your  men  go  when  they  fore- 
gather down  here,  Purdey.  Though  I  will 
say  you  make  'em  sweat  for  it  once  you've  got 
them  into  the  chains." 

Purdey  grinned  slowly.  He  was  young  and 
soft-voiced  and  quiet.  But  the  wills  of 
eighteen  men  out  of  twenty  broke  before  his 
when  they  followed  him  over  the  severing  tide- 
way of  two  worlds,  and  came  under  the  domin- 
ion of  the  bush. 

"I  take  delivery  up  at  camp,"  he  said. 
"They're  to  your  interest  down  here — not 
mine." 

A  blast  of  sound  rolled  down  the  street, 


mixed  with  the  rattle  of  wheels.  A  handful 
of  Purdey's  men  were  driving  round  the  fifteen 
corners  of  the  township  with  six  beaten  kero- 
sene-tins and  a  couple  of  concertinas. 

Murray  moved  in  his  chair  uneasily,  and 
shook  out  his  pipe. 

"I'll  have  to  go  out  and  kick  up  a  shine  di- 
rectly, you  know,"  he  said.  "Where  d'you 
rake  'em  up  from,  Purdey?  They  are  quite 
the  hardest  filings  I  ever  broke  a  knife  over." 

Purdey  sleeked  his  little  fair  moustache  with 
slow  fingers. 

"A  man's  not  a  man  without  a  splash  of  the 
brute  in  him,"  he  said.  "They  are  not  pretty; 
but  they're  tough.  The  bush  won't  have  weak- 
lings. I  bully-dam  them  from  the  jump,  and 
if  they  play  up  they  know  it.  But,  bless  you, 
if  I  kick  them  out  they  come  back  the  next 
year  with  their  tails  down.  It's  like  to  like, 
and  no  other  job  can  hold  them  for  long.  When 
the  bush  calls  they've  got  to  answer,  if  it  strips 
half  their  life  off  'em." 

"I  know.  You  see  it  in  every  caste.  They 
must  run  with  their  own  mob;  for  their  ear- 
mark is  struck,  and  the  brand  of  the  wild  is 

on  their  shoulders.  Now,  by  all  the there 

go  the  Salvation  Army  lassies.  Three  of  'em. 
I  made  sure  they'd  have  the  sense  to  lie  low 
to-night.  Purdey,  those  pet  lambs  of  yours 
will  be  raising  Cain  directly.  Come  on." 

Murray  was  in  plain  clothes;  but  he  carried 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      73 

a  revolver.  Tact  would  be  needed  this  night; 
with  perhaps  straight  hitting,  and  the  threat 
of  a  shot  sent  wide.  The  side-street,  with  its 
one  lamp  at  the  corner,  was  given  over  to  a 
cow  cropping  grass  by  the  foot-path;  but  the 
next  flickered  with  lanterns  and  roared  with 
sound  as  the  two  ran  into  it.  The  bleared  red 
eye  above  Phelan's  door  rocked  where  someone 
struck  the  lamp-edge  with  a  stick,  chanting  a 
song  that  made  Murray's  ears  flame.  Purdey's 
grip  held  his  arm. 

"You'll  get  kiboshed  if  you  jump  into  that," 
he  said.  "They're  drunk  as  lords.  Let  him 
sing.  There's  no  one  at  Phelan's  but  the  old 
man;  and  Cox  is  a  pretty  muddy  puddle  if  he 
can  harm  Phelan.  Oh,  by  Jove!  Ring  those 
lassies  off " 

The  three  girls  paused  on  the  curb,  and  lift- 
ed a  hymn,  sweet  and  clear.  By  order  of  the 
belief  which  they  serve,  it  is  the  lassies  who 
pray  on  the  street  corners;  standing  pitiful 
and  unafraid,  among  the  rinsings  that  wash 
through  all  townships,  and  out  again  into  the 
unknown.  And  there  is  no  man  so  sinful  but 
he  will  respect  the  lassies — unless  the  hand  of 
drink  is  too  heavy  on  him.  From  Blake's  bar- 
parlour  Randal  heard  the  first  notes  of  the 
hymn,  and  the  shout  of  coarse  laughter  that 
followed. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  and  no  more.  But 
eight  men  pelted  after  him  over  the  street. 


74      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

It  was  to  Tod's  eternal  sorrow  that  he  was 
not  in  Blake's  parlour  that  night.  Lou  told 
all  in  unblemished  vividness  later,  with  the 
Packer  to  grunt  the  burden;  and  the  middle 
piece  came  once  from  Steve  when  his  great 
blundering  heart  ached  for  the  unburdening. 

"I  was  mad,"  he  said.  (This  was  up  a  dried 
water-course  under  the  stars,  with  no  one  to 
hear  but  Tod.)  "I  was  blind,  blazin'  mad. 
What  sense  had  Maiden  ter  go  takin'  up  wi' 
the  Army,  an'  ter  go  singin'  in  the  street?  An' 
she  innercent  as  a  little  soft-breasted  bush- 
wren,  an'  them  Army  lassies  hevin'  ter  wade 
roun'  in  all  the  devil's  evil  o'  the  world.  It 
was  Randal  cut  us  out  a  way  through  the  ruck, 
wi'  his  head  under  his  arms  same  as  we  does  in 
a  football  rush — near  got  squished  too,  he  did. 
I  hed  holt  on  her  ter  carry  her  out  'fore  I  knew 
who  it  was.  There  was  Pug  Chancy  wi'  his 
arm  roun'  her — . — "  Steve  looked  down  at  his 
knuckles.  "Tuk  near  as  much  skin  offen  him 
as  offen  them,"  he  said. 

"I  was  fancyin'  as  it  was  Lou  brart  her  out," 
said  Tod.  "It  was  Lou  she  was  walkin'  wid 
up  to  the  cemet'ry  lasht  avenin'." 

"Was  she?"  Steve's  voice  roughened.  "I 
didn't  think — but  she  ain't  spoke  to  me  sence 
last  night,  an'  Lou — he  caught  her  hand  when 
I  was  lightin'  out  wi'  her,  an'  he  kissed  it. 
'You're  brave,  Maiden,'  he  said,  an'  was  inter 
the  thick  of  it  agin  'fore  I  could  lash  him.  An' 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      75 

I — I  was  blind  mad — when  I  set  her  down  at 
the  corner  she  was  cryin',  an'  I  was  sick  wi' 
thinkin'  o'  what  she'd  heard.  So  I  messed  it 
up  straight.  '  'Take  shame  ter  yerself,'  I  said, 
'ter  go  listenin*  ter  foulness  not  fit  fur  men. 
Git  yer  home  an'  ter  bed,  an'  furgit  it.'  An' 
she  run  from  me;  up  an'  in  at  the  door,  an'  I 
went  back " 

"Well  then?"  asked  Tod  after  a  pause. 

Steve's  fingers  gripped  the  tussock-tufts 
until  the  life  flew  from  them  in  spurted  earth. 

"I  reckon  I  did  some  good  work  fur  Mur- 
ray." Then  he  sat  upright,  his  voice  shaken 
with  passion.  "Tod— did  you  ever  want  ter 
kill?  Ter  git  on  a  man,  an'  break  the  back  of 
him,  an'  ter  see  him  dyin'  under  yer  hands " 

"Bedad,  I  disremimber  if  iver  I  did,"  said 
Tod,  startled.  "Ye're  not  afther  feelin'  that 
away  wid  me,  Steve;  are  ye  now?" 

"I  would  hev  killed  Lou  ef  I'd  had  him  under 
me  boots  in  that  mix-up,"  said  Steve  slowly. 
"Maybe  I'll  kill  him  yet." 

"There's  more  than  wan  wud  kill  Lou  with 
delight,"  said  Tod,  ruminating.  "What  does 
he  bring  Roddy  Duncan  tu  Blake's  for  but  to 
git  Randal  woild  wid  his  gab  of  Art  Scannell 
an'  Miss  Effie?  I  seen  Randal  wid  murder  in 
the  black  face  of  him  more  than  wanst." 

"Art  and  Roddy  were  in  Phelan's  wi'  the 
rest,"  said  Steve,  coming  to  his  feet  clumsily. 
"I  saw  Roddy  cryin'  like  the  girl-baby  he  is." 


76      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal  had  seen  more  than  that  when  he 
burst  through  the  welter  of  men.  In  the  red 
of  the  bar  and  the  lamp  Art  Scannell  stood, 
capless  and  coatless,  drumming  the  tambourine 
snatched  from  Maiden,  and  shouting  words 
that  brought  Randal's  clapped  hand  over  his 
mouth.  Art  struck  him  without  delay.  Then 
the  surge  of  the  struggle  swung  them  apart. 
The  black  night  rocked  with  shouts  and  curs- 
ing and  ribald  laughter.  On  a  wave-crest 
Steve's  face  gleamed  white,  with  drops  of 
sweat  on  the  forehead,  and  Randal  heard  the 
crack  of  his  shut  fist  once  and  again.  Came  a 
flash  of  Roddy's  scared  boy- face  where  great 
hands  forced  him  down  on  his  knee-bones.  Into 
the  tossed  wrath  and  fury,  and  the  stench  of 
spirits  and  heated  men,  Murray's  voice  clanged 
like  struck  iron.  Purdey  was  laughing  on  the 
outskirts.  It  was  for  Murray  to  handle  these 
men  down  here.  He  would  wring  out  his  own 
payment  beyond  North-of- Sunday. 

Somewhere  out  of  the  blaring  sounds  reared 
Pug  Chaney's  challenging  war-note,  and  Lou 
answered  with  his  light  glad  laugh,  and  the 
lithe  spring  of  a  seeking  tiger.  The  two  went 
down  beneath  the  turning  boots,  and  Randal 
baulked  Murray's  charge  with  his  shoulder. 
Murray  staggered  sideways,  and  Randal  saw 
Ormond's  strong  clean-cut  face  behind.  His 
teeth  caught  on  his  lip  as  he  wrenched  Mur- 
ray's hands  from  Art's  sleeve. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      77 

"Take  Pug  if  you  want  someone  for  your 
credit's  sake,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  hanged  if 
you'll  touch  Art  Scannell." 

Ormond  had  Roddy  Duncan  upright  and 
half-sheltered  by  his  arm.  He  paused  one  in- 
stant before  buffetting  out  a  track  through  the 
locked  and  reeking  bodies. 

"Randal — don't  be  a  fool,"  he  cried.  "Mur- 
ray has  the  law ." 

Then  the  crowd  surged  in,  and  Randal  un- 
derstood through  the  whirl  of  blood-hot  haste 
that  Murray  was  struggling  with  swinging 
handcuffs.  He  heard  the  clink  as  they  brushed 
Art's  arm.  He  struck  straight  from  the  shoul- 
der, and  Murray  dropped  without  remark. 
Then  Randal  beat  a  way  out  to  the  dark,  and 
the  far  pure  stars,  and  silence. 

The  unholy  excitement  that  calls  up  the 
beast  in  man  was  abroad  in  the  air,  and  Lou 
rode  on  the  blast  of  it;  gay,  quick-fisted,  and 
undistressed.  The  Packer,  who  nursed  a 
twisted  arm  for  a  full  three  weeks,  averred 
that  it  was  Lou  who  brought  peace  at  the 
dawning  when  he  turned  the  mob  into  Phelan's 
bar  for  another  round  of  nips,  and  helped 
Murray  and  two  more  to  select  the  ringleaders 
where  they  lay  in  an  unmoving  slumber. 

Randal  came  to  Murray  in  the  red  morning. 
His  lip  was  swelled,  and  he  was  not  otherwise 
good  to  look  on. 

"It  was  I  who  floored  you  last  night,"  he 


78      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

said.  "Shall  I  show  up  at  the  court  with  the 
others?" 

Murray  walked  with  a  stick,  and  his  hand 
was  skinned.  He  met  Randal's  eyes. 

"No,"  he  said. 

Randal  flushed. 

"I'm  not  asking  your  confounded  mercy," 
he  said  savagely. 

"You  wouldn't  get  it  if  you  were.  Took 
young  Art  home  all  right,  did  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Randal,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 
"Tell  Ormond  I  came  to  give  myself  up,"  he 
added. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"You  see,  I'm  only  a  station-hand,  Effie." 

"Well,  that's  all  you  were  when  I  first  loved 
you,  silly  boy." 

"It  didn't  matter  then.  Nothing  mattered. 
Now — it  matters  more  than  all  the  world  be- 
sides." 

"It  doesn't!  How  can  it?  I  like  things  to 
be  just  the  same.  The  sunshine,  and  all  the 
slope  of  yellow  down  to  the  creek,  and  you  sit- 
ting up  here  just  with  me  alone.  I  am  I,  and 
you  are  you;  and  we've  got  all  the  sun  and  the 
breezes  to  ourselves.  And  that  is  enough." 

"Is  it?  My  little  Effie  — you  don't 
know " 

"Oh,  look!  There's  a  butterfly!  The  first 
one  of  spring!  Ah!" 

Kundul  came  to  his  feet  as  she  sprang  past 
him  with  the  gladness  of  a  child  in  her  limbs 
and  in  her  face.  The  spring  air  was  blowing 
warm  across  the  hill-top  and  the  veined  slopes 
to  the  westing,  and  the  smell  of  young  grass 
and  brown  earth  came  up  from  the  paddock- 
flat  where  Moody  and  Lou  were  ploughing. 
The  hog-backed  range  to  the  rightward  was 

79 


80      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

puce  and  opal  and  blood-crimson,  and  on  the 
spears  of  sunlight  between  the  cabbage-trees 
the  Red  Admiral  flickered  like  an  elusive 
thought.  Randal  laughed  when  the  little 
ringed  fingers  snatched  for  it,  missed,  and 
glanced  in  light  again.  Then  he  flung  his  cap, 
and  brought  the  red-and-black  flash  to 
earth. 

"What  a  baby  you  are,  Effie!  he  said. 
"There's  your  plaything." 

She  cast  herself  on  the  tussock,  slipping  deli- 
cate fingers  under  the  old  soiled  tweed. 

"Stupid  boy — what  made  you  do  that?" 

"I  thought  you  wanted  it." 

"Not  like  this — with  a  broken  wing.  You've 
spoilt  it!" 

She  shook  it  off  into  the  yellow  spines,  with 
a  childish  pout,  and  Randal's  face  was  sud- 
denly hard. 

"Not  the  only  broken  thing  I've  given  you, 
is  it?  You  had  better  shake  me  off,  too,  Effie." 

The  sweet  dark  eyes  were  full  of  puzzlement, 
and  the  lip  dropped. 

"Guy — I  never  can  understand  you.  I  didn't 
mean  anything " 

Randal  kicked  aside  his  gorse-knif  e — he  had 
been  cutting  brush  in  the  gully  beyond — and 
dropped  down  beside  her. 

"Dearest — dear  little  girl,  I  know  you 
didn't.  I — sometimes  wish  you  did.  Effie, 
you  are  such  a  child,  and  I — oh,  my  little,  lit- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      81 

tie  Effie,  what  are  we  doing!  What  are  we 
doing  I" 

"Being  happy!  That's  enough  for  to-day, 
isn't  it?  Don't  be  such  a  dear  old  duffer, 
Guy." 

She  laid  the  drawn  sword  of  a  flax-leaf 
across  his  mouth,  laughing.  Randal  caught  her 
hand,  gripping  it  fast. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "You  are  Life  and  Death 
and  Heaven  and  Hell  to  me.  And  I — Heaven 
knows  what  I  am  to  you.  For  I  think  that 
you  don't  know  the  meaning  of  those  words 
yet,  Effie." 

"I — don't  know.  It  doesn't  matter,  does  it? 
I  do  love  you,  Guy." 

Her  sweet  breath  was  on  his  cheek,  and  her 
soft  troubled  face  was  very  close.  Randal 
nearly  laughed.  Just  so  would  she  have  spoken 
to  her  grandmother. 

For  an  instant  the  mad  longing  was  in  him 
to  teach  her,  somehow,  some  way,  that  passion 
which,  once  lit,  burns  to  eternity  on  the  very 
core  of  life  itself.  Already  she  had  taught  him 
all  the  unrest  that  is  beyond  a  name.  Already 
she  had  taught  him  such  desire  as  will  purge 
all  dross  from  a  man,  or  will  kill  him,  body 
and  soul.  She  touched  his  neck  gently. 

"Do — do  you  know  what  love  really  means, 
Guy?" 

Unseen,  below  the  forehead  of  the  hill  Lou 
was  whistling  as  the  plough  wore  round,  and 


82      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  clank  of  tightening  chains  came  up  sharp- 
ly. Randal  moved. 

"Do  I  know  what  love  is?  Yes;  I  know. 
Though  you  were  long  years  dead,  and  just 
dust  blown  along  the  hills,  I  would  feel  you 
pass  by  on  the  wind.  I  would  love  you  then 
as  now " 

She  ruffled  up  his  hair  with  both  upstretched 
hands,  and  her  eyes  were  laughing. 

"And  how  do  you  love  me  now?"  she  said. 

And  then  Randal  cast  the  honour  that  he 
had  been  rivetting  behind  him  for  a  space ;  and 
it  broke,  as  it  had  broken  many  times  before, 
to  be  patched  again  through  bitter  nights  of 
wakefulness. 

A  wedge  of  swan  passed  dumbly  overhead, 
black  on  the  daffodil  sky.  Along  the  crystal 
of  the  snow-hills  the  sunset  poured,  red  as 
strong  wine.  The  sharpness  of  it  was  in  the 
air,  and  in  Randal's  heart.  He  heard  Lou's 
laugh  below  as  the  leading-chains  fell ;  and  the 
tramp  of  the  horses  turning  homeward. 

"I  work  for  your  father,"  he  said.  "And  I 
can't  look  him  in  the  face.  I  meet  Murray  and 
Ormond,  and  others  who  are  no  better  than  I 
— -was.  And  I  can't  look  them  in  the  face. 
For  they  know  what  I  ought  to  be,  and  what  I 
am.  And  do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  they 
would  call  me  if  they  knew — this?" 

His  arms  were  very  close  round  her,  and  she 
smiled  at  him  wonderingly. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      83 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  really  if  they  are  in  the 
house  while  you  are  in  the  whare.  For  you 
are  a  gentleman  too,  Guy." 

"Effie,  I  think  that  I  am  not — or  I  would 
not  be  here.  I  am  just  drifting." 

"Well,  keep  on  drifting!  I  like  you  much 
better  that  way  than  when  you  want  to  stand 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road  and  touch  your 
cap.  And  please,  please  don't  bother  about  all 
the  others  days,  Guy.  There's  just  now — noth- 
ing else  ever  matters.  And  can't  you  fancy  that 
the  broom  and  manuka  in  the  gully  are  butter- 
cups and  daisies,  and  we  are  just  children  home 
from  school?  And  there's  a  wee,  wee  rabbit 
over  on  the  sand-ridge!  Come  and  we'll  chase 
him  home!  Come!" 

She  darted  across  the  tussock  slope;  and 
Randal  picked  up  his  gorse-knife  and  followed, 
the  after-glow  dark  on  his  face. 

Tod  was  hoarse  with  delight  when  Randal 
came  into  the  whare  at  the  dusk. 

"Begorra;  it's  the  fat  luck  laid  thick  ontu 
us  this  toime,"  he  crowed.  "Git  to  your  pack- 
in'  then,  Randal,  me  boyo.  Wirrasthrew,  that 
niver  a  blackthorn  grows  woild  in  this  bush  at 
all!  Cud  I  break  Pug  Chaney's  head  wid  the 
fisht  of  me,  du  ye  think  now?" 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  Randal. 

Steve  explained  briefly. 


84      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"North-o'-  Sunday.  Four  on  us  wi'  drays  ter 
git  the  totara  fur  the  noo  drawin'-room; 
Scannell  wants  it  sharp.  We're  to  give  a  hand 
if  Purdey  is  pushed.  Reckon  it'll  take  all  o' 
a  week  ter  git  it  out." 

"Who's  to  go?"  asked  Randal,  with  Effie's 
good-night  yet  warm  on  his  lips. 

"Me,"  cried  Tod,  swinging  his  legs  from  the 
table-edge.  "An'  yersilf.  An'  Steve  an'  Lou 
an'  me.  Och !  Ye'd  a  right  to  be  lookin'  plazed, 
me  hayro  of  war  in  the  corner  there !  Throth  1 
we'll  be  straightenin'  Purdey's  Camp  till  the 
mother  of  it  wud  pass  it  widout  good-day.  Ay, 
will  we!" 

"Purdey's  Camp  fights  best  when  it's  pure 
drunk,"  remarked  Lou,  biting  an  end  of  waxed 
thread  from  his  half-mended  saddle  strap. 
"You'll  find  them  slogging  in  up  to  the  knock- 
er, Tod,  or  Purdey's  eye-teeth  tell  lies." 

"Won't  they  be  stoppin'  for  males,  thin,  at 
all,  at  all?  Plaze  the  pigs  I'll  learn  them  to 
foight  whin  sober.  Ah!  bad  luck  to  it!  Why 
was  not  mesilf  in  the  township  that  noight?" 

The  cook  chuckled,  dredging  flour  into  a 
stew. 

"There  was  a  few  there  as  is  wishin'  they 
wasn't,  I'm  thinkin'.  Does  Maiden  run  wi'  the 
Lassie  pack  still,  Steve?" 

Steve  was  cobbling  a  patch  in  the  shoulder- 
blade  of  his  best  waistcoat.  A  small  darn 
Maiden  had  once  made  for  him  lay  next  it. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      85 

He  jumped  at  her  name,  spearing  his  thumb 
with  the  big  needle. 

"Dunno,"  he  said,  in  savage  defiance.  "Ask 
Lou.  He  sees  more  o'  her  than  I  does." 

Lou  drew  a  new  thread  through  the  wax  with 
a  rasping  squeal. 

"Tod's  gone  across  to  pack,"  he  said.  "If 
you  fellows  want  to  keep  any  of  your  belong- 
ings you'd  best  overhaul  his  swag.  He  was 
making  off  with  my  dungarees 

"He's  jest  torn  all  ways  wi*  excitement," 
said  Ted  Douglas.  "Keep  an  eye  on  him, 
Steve,  or  Purdey's  Camp'll  make  him  into 
paper  pulp." 

Tod  had  looked  for  battle  since  his  petti- 
coat days,  and  the  joy  of  two  fists  put  up  op- 
posite his  own  was  greater  to  him  than  the  love 
of  woman  and  home.  These  are  the  men  who 
tread  out  the  ways,  alone  and  reckless,  that 
another  man  may  build  thereon.  He  descend- 
ed on  Purdey's  Camp  with  challenge  in  his 
eye  and  in  his  shoulder-swing,  and  not  all  the 
long  aching  hours  since  sun-up  had  stiffened 
the  clatter  of  his  tongue. 

Purdey  met  them  at  the  door  of  his  slab  hut; 
read  over  ScannelTs  note,  and  gave  verdict  on 
the  instant. 

"Can't  possibly  get  it  all  out  this  week,"  he 
said.  "We  only  tapped  the  spur  yesterday. 
You  men  will  have  to  put  your  backs  into  it. 
Lou,  you're  good  at  team  work.  You  and 


86      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Steve  can  go  to  the  logging,  and  I'll  put  Pug 
and  Webber  on  felling.  Tod,  you'd  best  take 
the  cross-out.  Mair  will  be  your  mate.  He 
can  wind  any  man  in  camp." 

"Sure  then  there's  a  bloomin*  knock-out 
waitin'  for  him,  the  gossoon,"  said  Tod  joy- 
ously. "For  there  is  no  toight-lacin'  wid  Scan- 
nell's  men  at  all,  at  all." 

Then  Purdey  glanced  at  Randal's  sullen 
jaws  and  eyes,  and  swallowed  a  smile.  Ran- 
dal would  work  like  a  demon  while  this  mood 
held  him. 

"Felling  for  you,  too,"  he  said.  "And  you'll 
find  some  tough  stuff  to  bite  on."  He  slid  his 
hands  in  his  trousers-pockets,  looking  on  them 
with  the  bland  grin  of  a  child. 

"I  believe  I  saw  some  of  you  in  that  row 
in  the  township  last  month,"  he  said.  "You 
take  your  chances  here,  you  know.  I  sack  the 
first  man  who  complains." 

He  turned  into  his  hut,  and  Tod  wriggled 
with  thankful  joy. 

"Did  I  not  tell  ye  we  wud  turn  the  Camp 
insoide  out?"  he  cried.  "Four  of  us,  wid  fishts 
all,  and  Lou  havin'  science  to  top  up  wid. 
Come  on  wid  ye,  now,  whoile  we  give  thim 
good-mornin'." 

But  the  belt-rope  of  work  ran  rapid  and 
unbroken  on  Purdey's  Camp.  Purdey's  hand 
swayed  each  separate  lever.  At  the  tram-head 
the  gangs  felt  it,  where  they  wrought  with  the 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      87 

lean  rails  and  sleepers,  driving  Purdey's  will 
through  the  bush-heart;  where  they  served  the 
double  saws  and  the  axe-blades,  and  fed  sticks 
to  the  grips  that  gaped  ever  from  the  tail  of  the 
logging-tracks.  The  bench  sawyers  felt  it,  and 
the  trolley-men ;  and  each  tailer-out  and  engine 
driver  down  to  the  least  and  clumsiest  slabby 
that  lumped  in  the  mill. 

One  and  all,  they  had  no  time  to  play  with 
Tod,  until  the  engine  called  time,  and  the  mill- 
men  slouched  across  to  the  huts  set  in  the  strag- 
gle of  raped  bush,  and  the  cooking-smell  rose 
on  the  blue  keen  air,  Then  the  crowd  came 
down  from  the  tram-head;  and  the  gum  from 
bleeding  timber  was  on  hairy  chests  and  hands, 
and  the  good  sappy  scents  strong  on  their 
clothes. 

Then  Steve's  heart  leapt  in  him  at  sound  of 
the  bush-talk,  which  is  a  language  all  its  own ; 
and  Lou  sifted  through  the  trampling  vivid- 
voiced  mob,  picking  sharpers  and  fools  in  an 
eye-blink;  and  Tod  arranged  three  set-to's  to 
come  after  the  meal,  and  a  double  with  Steve 
as  partner. 

"But  you'd  best  not  be  servin'  writs  on 
Purdey,"  warned  Chessin.  "He's  got  the 
devil's  own  science,  an'  a  little  more  o'  his  own. 
Saw  him  put  Pug  to  sleep  wonst  for  cheekin* 
him." 

There  was  the  grate  of  pride  in  Chessin's 
tone.  For  the  bushmen  are  men,  and  they; 


88      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

will  not  serve  less  than  a  man.  And,  one  and 
altogether,  they  will  choose  a  beating  in  fair 
ding-dong  fight  before  the  easy  handling  a 
weak  soul  may  give. 

Tod  blinked  round  the  clearing  where  a  full 
hundred  men  from  the  ends  of  earth  struck  the 
great  bass  chord  of  virulent  life  above  the  ten- 
der treble  of  the  wind  passing  in  the  tree- 
tops. 

"Wid  the  four  of  us — takin*  come-an-go- 
agin — I  think  we  can  manage  to  howld  up  to 
the  week-indinY'  he  said. 

From  Purdey's  Camp  a  twelve-mile  tram- 
line ran  up  to  the  terminus.  The  rails  were  of 
wood,  and  warped  by  the  frost.  They  were 
hog-backed  over  the  creeks  and  gullies,  and 
sinfully  greasy  in  rain.  But  there,  and  in  the 
clashing  mills,  Purdey's  men  made  few  mis- 
takes. For  Purdey  had  the  knack  of  rousing 
their  pride,  and  pride  carries  weight  with  all 
men  who  are  worthy  the  name. 

Steve  roused  next  morning  to  the  scream 
of  the  mill-engines,  and  the  snarl  of  waking 
saws.  He  fought  in  the  man-choked  rough- 
slabbed  hut  for  sea-pie  and  mutton  through  the 
blank  chill  that  goes  before  dawn,  and  took 
the  first  jigger  that  sat  on  the  line  while  the 
sunrise  was  drowsy  and  faint  on  the  tree-tops. 
For  already  the  bush  was  calling  with  the 
witchery  of  shaken  sunbeams  on  the  laughing 
brown-eyed  cheeks,  and  the  trembling  sweet 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      89 

silences  of  frail  ferns  that  have  not  seen  the 
day. 

No  man  bred  in  the  streets  and  the  sheltered 
ways  may  know  the  glorious  merciless  joy  that 
follows  the  first  sob  of  the  blade  into  green 
unhandled  timber.  And  though  an  axeman  be 
past  all  but  the  blurred  memory,  he  will  turn 
at  that  sound  from  all  other  music  that  earth 
may  hold.  For  the  bush  is  the  Eternal  Artist 
whose  work  no  man  makes  sensuous  or  coarse, 
and  to  them  that  love  her  she  gives  that  intu- 
ition which  gets  behind  mystery  and  unbe- 
lief to  prove  that  God  has  made  in  His  own 
image  the  Almighty  Peace  which  He  lays  on 
Nature  the  round  world  through. 

In  the  cook-hut  someone  was  bawling  for  a 
stolen  crib.  The  clank  of  steel  burred  sharp 
on  the  air  as  a  tram-horse  bucked  in  the  traces. 
Lou  came  over  the  beaten  clearing  with  his 
long  whip  in  his  arm-pit,  and  swung  to  the 
jigger  as  Hoffman  got  it  under  way.  His 
knee  brushed  Steve's  when  he  took  the  place 
opposite,  and  his  gay  chaff  flicked  the  man  at 
his  side  to  haste.  Steve  lay  to  the  handles  in 
dogged  silence.  True  hate  marches  ever  with 
fear  to  goad  it,  and,  for  Maiden's  sake,  Steve 
feared  and  hated  Lou. 

One  by  one  the  jiggers  crawled  out  behind, 
strung  along  the  grey  line  like  shifting  beads 
on  a  string.  The  utter  peace  of  the  morning 
broke  under  the  grate  of  wheels  and  the  deep 


90      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

chest-breathing  that  carried  light  snatches  of 
song.  The  tinkle  of  frost- thinned  creeks  mur- 
mured alongside,  and  shy  tentative  trills  and 
flutters  in  the  deeps  of  the  scented  gullies  told 
to  men  that  the  birds  were  mating. 

Lou  swung  forward,  and  his  breath  brushed 
Steve's  face.  It  was  whiskey-tainted;  but  his 
eyes  were  clear  blue  as  the  sky,  and  the  white 
skin  that  showed  where  the  loose  shirt  gaped 
was  no  whiter  than  his  even  teeth. 

"It's  nice  to  think  we're  good  friends,  isn't 
it?"  he  said.  "There's  whips  of  places  on  a 
logging-track  where  a  man  might  come  to 
grief — by  accident." 

The  mockery  of  the  light  tone  hit  Steve.  He 
gripped  at  the  handles. 

"I  never  had  nuthin'  ter  do  wi'  them  kind  o' 
accidents,"  he  answered. 

"Nor  I."  Lou  blinked  up  at  the  welter  of 
gold  in  the  branches.  "Hear  that  tui!  He's 
making  love  to  his  mate.  D'you  think  he'll 
ever  get  her,  Steve?  They  are  clumsy  beggars, 
you  know." 

"Id  is  nod  dey  is  de  only  clumsy  beggar," 
growled  Hoffman.  "You  did  near  haf  us  ofer 
der  culvert!  Sit  oop,  man,  und  put  your  back 
indo  id." 

The  jigger  rocked  round  a  steep  angle,  and 
Lou  swung  to  balance  with  the  ease  of  the  sad- 
dle-bred. Right  and  left  the  old  logging- 
tracks  lay  on  the  slopes.  In  years  past  they 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      91 

too  had  waited;  ripped,  raw,  and  bleeding,  in 
the  dews  of  the  maiden  bush,  for  the  cleft  hoofs 
to  beat  them  to  barren  clay.  Now  the  jiggers 
flashed  from  them  to  new  life  that  called; 
and  to  their  nakedness  and  poverty  of 
rotting  stumps  the  lawyer-thorn  and  vagrant 
convolvulus  gave  pity  and  careless  cover- 
ing. 

For  a  full  hour,  as  the  sun  warmed  and  the 
black  gullies  waked,  the  jiggers  swarmed  up- 
ward; labouring  along  the  steep  grades,  and 
dipping  with  swallow-flight  to  the  sturdy 
bridges  that  spanned  creek  and  gully  and 
swamp.  And  then  the  heart-hunger  that 
jagged  Randal  always  gave  before  the  joy  of 
the  axe-helve  cold  in  his  hand,  and  the  crackle 
of  underbrush  as  the  men  crashed  through  and 
away  from  the  life  and  the  noise  at  the  tram- 
head. 

With  the  instinct  which  Purdey  called  a 
power  of  the  devil,  Punch  Reynolds  could  nose 
out  the  best  timber  through  the  bitterest  coun- 
try that  ever  broke  a  man's  heart.  He  stormed 
the  totara  spur,  quick-glancing  in  the  shadows 
for  each  bole  that  would  run  a  decent  three 
feet  across.  Randal  and  his  squad  crashed 
after,  obeying  the  sharp  wood-pecker  tap  of 
the  blaze;  and  before  the  axe  swung  for  the 
scarf  the  clearers  were  under  his  feet,  with  long 
knives  for  the  vine  and  young  sapling.  Cox 
ruled  the  next  gang. 


92      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Scannell  wants  fifteen  feets,"  he  said. 
"That  stick'll  cut  two— and  that." 

He  scored  the  mark  and  passed,  swearing 
at  the  wide-branched  tops.  For  these  shouted 
of  second-class  timber  from  each  ruddy  knot. 

Lou  swung  his  team  where  the  great  white 
chips  flew,  and  the  blue  flame  lit  his  eyes  as 
Tod  and  Mair  sprang  back  with  the  cross-cut. 
For  the  tree  stood  one  tense  second,  then  leapt 
on  its  stump;  roaring  headlong  through  the 
lighter  timber,  and  bringing  Steve  to  earth 
with  a  stray  branch. 

Steve  picked  himself  up,  wiped  the  blood 
from  his  neck  with  his  sleeve,  and  backed  his 
team  to  the  stick  Cox  had  marked. 

"I'll  come  back  fur  the  chap  as  floored  me 
when  it's  ready,"  he  said.  "What  made  yer 
fell  the  sloven  end  that  a-way,  Tod,  yer  ani- 
mal?" 

Tod  lent  his  weight  to  the  grip  where  Steve 
struggled  with  it. 

"Begad;  I  cudn't  git  the  thing  to  turn  a 
somersault,  at  all,  at  all,"  he  declared.  "Maybe 
it's  easier  drawin'  from  the  little  ind,  boy, 
dear." 

"Yer  a  fool,"  proclaimed  Pug,  lifting  the 
iron  grip  as  he  would  have  lifted  a  pair  of 
scissors,  and  casting  it  into  place.  "Git  a  move 
on  wi'  them  brutes  there." 

The  chains  shrieked  as  the  strain  fell  on 
them;  the  grip  bit  and  held  in  the  bleeding 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      93 

wood,  and  the  bullocks  grunted  with  fore-bent 
shoulders  as  the  great  bole  drew  slowly  from  its 
port. 

The  logging-way  was  a  cross  between  a 
skittle-alley  and  the  'tween-deck  promenade  of 
an  ocean  tramp.  It  was  moist  and  chill  as  the 
grave,  and  very  nearly  as  dark.  Steve  wound 
into  it,  where  the  dank  smells  and  the  utter 
silence  gave  him  creeps  up  his  spine,  and  the 
jar  of  the  log  on  the  iron  earth  and  the  creak 
of  the  twisting  yokes  sounded  hideously  loud 
and  unfamiliar.  Veil  on  veil  of  wide  wet  spider 
webs  broke  before  the  slow  horns,  and  under- 
foot the  young  springs  gave  up  their  lives  in 
splintered  glass.  Far  above,  where  the  sun 
was,  a  handful  of  moko-mokos  made  their 
prayer  to  God.  Then  behind,  from  mouth  of 
the  track,  Lou's  whistle  soared  up  to  catch  the 
falling  notes:  but  to  neither  man  was  there 
aught  of  hymn  in  it.  The  tune  broke  to  words 
that  stung  Steve  with  their  rollicking  derision. 

"l  know  she  likes  me !  I  know  she  likes  me, 
Because  she  says  so " 

Came  a  sudden  clatter,  hurried  oaths,  the 
curse  of  the  whip ;  once  and  thrice.  Then  a  full- 
lunged  shout  of  command: 

"Steve !  Make  way  there !  Make  out !  They've 
bolted!" 

Steve  stood.  And  there  was  all  of  the  devil  in 
his  face.  When  that  bolting  team  crashed 


94      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

full-speed  into  the  great  butt  at  his  elbow,  forty 
pounds  worth  of  bullocks  would  go — twice 
that,  and  perhaps  more.  For  this  was  Purdey's 
best  team,  and  Purdey  was  a  hard  man.  With- 
out any  doubt  Lou  would  disappear  before 

payment  was  called,  and  Maiden The 

thoughts  ran  with  the  swiftness  of  a  main- 
spring unloosed.  Then  the  message  of  the 
bush  went  home.  Steve  jumped  for  his  team, 
cut  the  whip  on  the  rumps,  on  the  quivering 
flanks,  on  the  nozzles  that  dripped  and  blew 
wide  with  terror.  The  log  canted  and  groaned 
as  the  brutes  sprang ;  swayed  to  a  clumsy  trot ; 
to  a  canter,  and  blundered  down  the  steep 
grade  with  the  grip  live-leaping  behind.  Steve 
half -swung  to  the  yoke,  grimly  beating  a  lag- 
gard about  the  head. 

"Ten  ter  one  he'll  git  pinched  ef  they  strike 
— comin'  that  pace,  too.  He  must  be  hold- 
in'  ter  'em.  Gosh!  He  kin  swear!" 

The  off-leader  pecked,  and  Steve's  whip 
snarled  under  the  wrist-work  that  had  peeled 
skin  in  straight  lines  from  more  than  one  bolt- 
ing piker.  The  sidling  was  greasy  in  clay. 
Now  again  it  was  corduroy  that  jarred  Steve's 
spine,  and  rough-rolling  stones  giving  no  foot- 
hold. Steve's  breath  came  in  groans,  and 
sweat  ran  down  his  face.  Yet — because  of 
that  something  in  man  which  forces  him  to  be 
true  against  his  will — he  flung  all  power  of 
body  and  mind  to  his  labour. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      95 

The  leaders  took  a  corner  too  fine.  The  log 
grunted,  swung,  and  grounded  across  the 
track,  jamming  between  stiff  tuke-tuke  sap- 
lings. Steve's  heart  leapt  in  his  throat  as  he 
sent  a  glance  up  the  track.  For  down  the 
greasy  sidling  Lou's  team  was  coming  at  a 
swinging  gallop,  and  the  grip  bounded  in  the 
air,  unsteadied  by  any  weight  whatever. 

"Lost  'is  log,  has  he?  Grip  slipped — my 
soul!  he'll  pay  for't  in  a  minute." 

Then  Steve  stood  aside,  helpless,  while  the 
other  man  gave  payment. 

Lou's  right  hand  was  as  a  twitch  on  the 
foremost  red  nostril,  and  the  brute  had  its  head 
up,  bellowing  with  pain.  Two  chains;  one; 
then  the  charge  hit  the  four-foot  totara  fair, 
and  crumbled. 

Lou  found  foothold,  cat-like,  diving  in 
where  the  fallen  leaders  writhed,  and  the  eight 
behind  bunched  upon  them.  The  flurry  of 
sweat-caked  bodies  and  tossing  horns  and  red- 
dened strained  eyes  made  the  very  gateway  of 
the  Pit,  and  that  gate  fell  half -open  for  Lou 
as  he  struggled,  cursing,  with  the  chains. 
Quite  clearly  Steve  saw  him  go  down  where 
the  hoofs  beat.  Quite  clearly  he  remembered 
Lou's  face  as  he  kissed  Maiden's  hand  in  the 
crush. 

"Curse  him,"  he  said,  "now  an'  always!" 
Then  he  went  in  and  brought  the  man  out. 

Lou's  left  sleeve  was  ripped  to  the  shoulder, 


96      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

and  a  stray  horn  had  run  out  a  trench  up  the 
flesh  beneath.  His  face  was  curd-white  under 
the  bloody  spume  that  flecked  it,  and  he  stag- 
gered, half-blind  and  sick. 

"Get  out,"  he  said,  when  Steve  would  have 
strapped  the  torn  flesh.  "Lend  a  hand  with 
these  brutes  before  they  kick  themselves  into 
blazes." 

They  took  the  danger  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
without  speech  and  without  hesitation.  But 
the  sweat  of  pain  ran  down  Lou's  face,  and 
Steve's  grip  on  the  hooks  was  unsteady. 

When  the  log  was  freed  and  Steve's  team 
under  way  again,  Lou  spoke  with  tight  lips, 
and  the  red  dripping  from  his  cuff-band  to 
the  dust. 

"I'm  taking  all  that  can  walk  back  for  my 
log.  But  you  needn't  try  to  trap  me  again, 
for  I'll  be  coming  too  slow  next  time." 

Steve  straightened  as  under  a  whip-cut.  The 
savage  showed  for  a  flash  in  his  honest  broad 
face. 

"By !  you'll  pay  for  that  when  yer  got 

two  hands  agin,  Lou  Birot!  Don't  go  thinkm' 
as  I'll  furgit " 

"I  don't  mean  you  to  forget,"  said  Lou;  but 
his  light  defiance  crumbled,  and  he  steadied 
with  an  effort. 

Something  fought  with  the  hate  in  Steve. 

"Yer  can't  go  back,  Lou.  Yer  ain't  fit. 
Yer  can't  swing  a  whip " 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD      97 

"Do  you  want  to  feel  if  I  can't?"  demanded 
Lou,  and  his  eyes  were  wicked  absolutely. 

Steve  went,  never  looking  back.  Lou  turned 
to  his  team.  The  leaders  were  dying  where 
they  stood,  brought  to  their  feet  only  by  the 
point  of  the  knife.  The  power  of  it  goaded 
them  into  the  under-scrub  at  the  track-side, 
where  they  pitched  sideways  among  soft-head- 
ed moss  and  maiden-hair  and  the  flower  of  the 
wild  strawberry  to  meet  death  with  wrath  and 
black  pain. 

Three  hours  later  Lou  brought  his  shrunk 
team  down  to  the  tram-head.  There  was  a 
heathenish  bandage  round  his  arm,  and  a  tour- 
niquet hugging  the  thick  of  it.  He  crawled 
up  the  logging-bank,  cast  off  the  grip  opposite 
the  waiting  trolley,  stumbled  into  a  ganger's 
hands,  and  lay  there. 

Purdey  bound  the  wound  that  night  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  woman.  Then  he  tongue- 
lashed  Lou  into  white  fury  before  all  the 
Camp.  For  carelessness  was  the  unforgivable 
sin  beyond  TsTorth-of- Sunday,  and  without 
doubt,  Lou's  grip  had  never  been  properly  set. 
Tod  carried  the  truth  back  to  Mains — with  a 
couple  of  black  eyes  as  a  voucher. 

"Be  aisy  till  I  tell  you,  thin,"  he  said.  "Sure, 
it's  the  unnathural  ugly  objic'  Pug  Chancy  is 
when  he  comes  out  of  the  ind  of  a  mill  wid 
Steve  to  do  the  clappin'  on  him.  Bedad,  it's 
Steve  is  the  quare  ould  slogger  an'  all  of  it! 


98      THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Clane  and  clever  he  is,  and  Lou'll  have  to  be 
takin'  afther  the  devil  what  owns  him  to  turn 
Steve  over  whin  they  putt  up  their  hands.  An' 
that'll  be  all  to  watch!  It  is  not  Lou  takes  the 
whip-cut  widout  lookin'  for  the  hand  what 
gives  it.  No — sorra  a  fear  will  Lou  do  that!" 

"But  it  was  Purdey  rowed  him,"  said  Ike. 
"Even  Lou  must  see  that." 

Tod  looked  at  him  pityingly. 

"May  ye  git  your  health  till  ye  grow  sinse," 
he  said.  "Musha!  Ye've  a  right  to  live  to  a 
quare  ould  age,  I'm  thinkinV 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  dust  was  bone-white  on  the  road  that 
boot,  hoof  and  wheel  had  scored  over.  The  hot 
day  held  a  taint  of  Nor'west,  and  the  new- 
clothed  poplars  along  the  sale-yard  fence 
propped  a  sky  blue  and  vivid  as  sapphire.  The 
yards  were  without  shade;  breathless,  clogged 
by  panting  sheep  and  restless-eyed  cattle,  and 
broken  and  unbroken  horses.  The  air  was 
rank  with  the  smell  of  them,  and  with  the 
smell  of  cheap  tobacco  and  beer  and  mole- 
skins and  leather:  for  the  township  lay  just 
round  the  corner,  and  the  drovers  sat  along 
the  rails  with  the  give-and-take  talk  of  a  month 
in  their  mouths,  and  the  high-pitched  clatter 
of  the  auctioneers  to  deaden  it. 

Danny  detached  himself  from  a  knot  of 
women  by  the  poultry-crates  and  climbed  the 
rail  beside  Hynes,  the  Behar  cook  who  had 
come  down  from  the  hills  to  get  a  tooth  pulled. 
With  Lou,  Danny  had  brought  over  a  draught 
of  steers  at  daybreak,  and  the  stockwhip 
round  his  arm  showed  wet  hairs  on  it  yet. 

"Pic-nics  they  was  ter  land,  too,"  explained 
Danny,  ramming  twist  into  his  half-bitten 


100    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

pipe.  "See  me  talkin'  ter  Mrs.  Elaine  over 
there?  Two  on  'em  got  waltzin'  round  her 
back-yard,  an'  I'm  goffered  ef  she  didn't  go  fur 
'em  proper  wi'  the  fryin'-pan.  Clouted  'em 
over  the  head  all  seraphic,  she  did." 

"Jimmie  cud  'a'  done  well  wi'  some  o'  his 
mother's  spare  pluck,"  said  Hynes.  "An' 
what'll  he  be  sayin'  'bout  old  Buggy,  I  won- 
der?" 

Danny  sucked  fire  into  his  pipe,  and  killed 
the  match  between  slow  fingers. 

"Devil  knows,"  he  said  soberly.  "I'm  con- 
ducin'  as  Jimmie  don't — ner  won't  yet  a  bit. 
He's  been  cleanin'  up  the  last  o'  the  rabbitin' 
fur  Robertson  back  o'  All  Alone  sence  Scan- 
nell  sacked  him.  'Tain't  much  news  he'll  be 
gittin'  there  'cept  what  the  wekas  an'  keas  has 
on  tap." 

"Rum  thing  o'  Ted  Douglas  ter  git  his  mate 
sacked  that  a-way,"  said  Pavit.  "I  can't  un- 
derstand it  myself." 

Pavit  was  a  muddy  dredge-hand  from  the 
Glory,  and  he  sat  the  rail  with  his  long  hip- 
boots  swinging,  and  the  yellow  clay  caked  on 
his  cap.  Danny  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"Never  s'posed  yer  cud !  It  takes  a  man  ter 
understan'  a  man.  What'd  Ted  hev  done  wi' 
Lou  and  Scott  an'  them  rotters  ef  he  hadn't 
played  the  game?  Can  ye  consplain  that, 
now?" 

"Jimmie  was  the  wust  rotter  o'  the  lot,  any- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     101 

ways,"  said  Lossin,  comfortably,  and  Hynes 
added : 

"Same  here.  I'll  eat  me  false  teeth  if  it 
weren't  Jimniie  as  sucked  poor  old  Buggy  dry 
an'  lef  him  ter  starve " 

"Ted's  runner-up  fur  them  stakes "  be- 
gan Garron,  and  staggered  back  as  Danny 
leapt  for  him. 

"Tell  him  that  ter  his  face,  will  yer,  ye ? 

An'  if  he  leaves  the  two  jaws  on  yer  it'll  be 
so  as  yer  kin  beg  his  pardon  the  way  he  kin 
onnerstan'  it!  Ted!  Ted  Douglas!  Doesn't 
we  know " 

"As  he  an'  Jimmie  was  the  on'y  two  old 
Buggy'd  ever  hev  inside  his  door,"  ended  Gar- 
ron, holding  the  little  man  off.  "And  there's 
one  on  'em  wheedled  all  his  rhino  outer  him, 
poor  old  fool.  An'  'Dun't  you  throw  it  up  ter 
the  lad,'  says  he.  'He  was  kind  ter  the  old 
man,'  says  he." 

"Old  ass,  he  should  have  said,"  amended 
Hynes.  "But  Murray  ain't  sure,  else  why  is 
he  grubbin'  high  and  low  fur  inflamation  'fore 
he  knows  if  it's  wuth  while  ter  bring  Ted 
in  from  his  musterin'  er  Jimmie  from  All 
Alone?" 

"Old  Buggy  knowed  it  was  Ted,  or  would 
he  have  died  with  his  mouth  shut?"  said  Gar- 
ron departing;  and  Lossin  came  into  the  talk. 

"What  d'yer  expect  ter  git  fur  them  steers, 
Danny?" 


102    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Danny  showed  a  rip  in  his  trouser-leg,  and 
spat  emphatically. 

"Some  more  o'  that  if  we  got  ter  deliver  'em. 
Scannell  expects  four-ten,  and  Pike  don't 
elucidate  to  it.  He's  givin'  Art  the  wet  side 
of  his  tongue  over  it,  I  guess." 

Two  yards  off  was  Art  Scannell  with  his 
dogs  at  heel  and  a  red-whiskered  man  opposite. 
Art  was  booted  and  breeched,  and  his  dark 
delicate  face  and  small  head  carried  the  charm 
and  the  grace  of  his  sister.  But  his  walk  and 
his  speech  were  uncertain,  and  the  pupil  of 
his  eye  too  dull.  Danny  watched  the  rising 
storm  cheerfully,  and  he  chuckled  as  Art 
kicked  his  dogs  apart  and  moved  off  with  a 
curt-flung  sentence. 

"Sell  'em  himself,  will  he?  I  seen  him  do 
that  wonst.  I  seen  him  balustradin'  on  the 
rails  sellin'  pigs.  'One-four/  he  yells  out; 
'one-four — one-four,'  and  smack!  over  he 
pitches  atop  of  the  pigs,  an'  old  Backrip,  he 
yells  out — 'Darn  it,  Art,  but  it's  one  for 
you  this  time.'  Then  Randal — being  allers 
superflous — goes  in  an'  yanks  him  out  an' 
cleans  him  down.  That's  young  Art  doin' 
sellin'." 

The  Packer  stuck  his  lean  eagle-face  over 
Hynes'  shoulder. 

"There  ain't  no  men  these  days,"  he  said. 
"We  cud  drink  proper  when  I  was  young. 
Big  Jos  Creer — you  know  Jos?" 


Danny  nodded.  Jos  Creer's  name  was 
green  up  in  the  shut  miners'  cemetery  on  the 
hill,  with  the  date  1869  against  it. 

"He  was  a  man,"  said  Packer.  "I  seen  him 
knock  down  a  twenty-cheque  in  Mullin's  bar 
— wot  stood  where  the  Crescent  dredge  is  now 
— an'  go  straight  away  out  an'  carry  a  sack 
o'  flour  two  mile  over  the  hill  ter  Chinaman's 
Gully  fur  a  bet.  An'  the  hills  reekin'  wi'  shafts 
and  scrub  in  those  days,  not  to  be  speakin'  o* 
cows  strayed  off  of  the  commonage.  That's 
what  I  calls  a  man." 

"That's  what  I  calls  a  fool,"  said  Danny, 
politely,  and  cast  himself  headlong  through  six 
wedges  of  men  to  drag  a  fox-terrier  off  the 
ear  of  his  blue  Smithfield.  The  fox-terrier  be- 
longed to  Roddy  Duncan,  who  had  come  up 
from  the  township  with  Art,  and  it  was  Mur- 
ray's crisp  tones  that  cut  the  wrangle  in  half. 
Roddy  was  more  flushed  and  excited  than  he 
should  have  been;  but  he  straightened  before 
the  keen  eyes,  for  they  wore  the  look  of  the 
hunter  of  men. 

"What  yer  after?"  said  Danny,  recovering 
his  temper. 

"Dick  Wepeha.  Sheep-stealing — again. 
Danny,  can  you  tell  me  the  brands  and  ear- 
marks of  Jackson's  new  draught — an'  any- 
thing about  Behar  or  Mackay's?" 

Danny  knew  the  signs  of  all  sheep  within 
fifty  miles.  Each  holder  in  the  distance  de- 


104    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

sired  him  for  a  day  or  an  hour  at  branding- 
time,  and — came  the  sheep  in  a  mixed  draught 
from  Westland  or  Wairarapa  or  Nelson — 
Danny  laid  his  finger  unerringly  on  each,  and 
told  off  the  present  owner.  Every  man  has 
his  own  gift  to  cultivate.  Danny  had  culti- 
vated his  into  genius.  It  was  polyglot  jabber 
to  Roddy;  but  Murray  jotted  it  down,  quick- 
fingered. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  snapping  his  note-book. 
"I  might  find  some  stray  skins  round  Dick's 
paddocks." 

"Yer  keep  yer  eyebrows  shiftin'  for  Pipi 
Wepeha,"  said  Danny,  wisely.  "He  curses 
chaps  as  he  don't  like." 

"We  all  do  that,"  said  Murray,  and  laughed. 

"Yer  conspirin'  enough  ter  know  the  differ 
when  a  old  Maori  tohunga  starts  that  game, 
ain't  yer?"  demanded  Danny,  tartly.  "If  Pipi 
puts  his  foolery  on  ter  you,  Murray,  yer'll 
smart  fur  it." 

"Bah!"  said  Murray,  and  swung  off,  clean- 
limbed and  alert. 

Roddy,  having  fear  of  all  things  which  he 
did  not  understand,  fed  that  fear  on  all  possible 
occasions. 

"W-what  would  Pipi  do?"  he  asked  ner- 
vously. 

Lou's  clear  laugh  sounded  behind  him. 

"Do?  He'd  put  makutu  on  him  for  a  start. 
Then  Murray " 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     105 

"Shut  it,  Lou,  an'  don't  go  swabbin'  what 
brains  he's  got  out  o'  him 

But  Lou  backed  to  the  fence,  crossed  his 
legs,  and  began  to  speak  slowly,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  a  half-score  men  listening. 
And  he  did  not  guess  he  was  loosening  the 
sod  for  more  graves  than  one.  Lou  came  from 
the  North,  where  the  pakeha  learns  the  be- 
liefs and  the  hates  of  the  Maori,  on  land  soaked 
in  the  blood  of  both  races ;  and  what  he  had  to 
tell  he  told  cleverly,  to  trouble  the  wide-eyed 
boy  before  him.  So  that  in  the  end  Roddy 
went  away,  sick  and  shaken;  and  giddy  with 
the  unfolding  of  a  horror  too  vivid  for  his  sen- 
sitive brain. 

"Brute  yer  are,  Lou,"  said  Danny,  fiercely; 
and  Lou  grinned,  filling  his  pipe. 

"Tell  you,  it's  a  real  joke  to  rattle  that  kid. 
He  gathers  up  every  egg  you  chuck  at  him, 
and  sits  on  it." 

"He'll  hatch  trouble  out  o'  that  one,  belike," 
said  Hall.  "  'Tain't  right " 

"Bah!  Those  steers  are  sold,  Danny,  so  we're 
right ;  and  that's  all  I  care  about.  Let  the  kid 
go  to  blazes  if  he  likes." 

Roddy  chased  his  shadow  swiftly  up  the 
white  road.  At  the  corner  Gordon's  wife 
stood  at  a  cottage-door,  merry-eyed  and  clean- 
ly, with  children  tumbling  at  her  feet.  The 
scent  of  hawthorn  came  over  the  gate  with  her 
voice. 


106    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Roddy !  Tell  Gordon  to  hurry  up  home.  I 
got  a  bit  o'  chicken  for  his  tea." 

Roddy  grunted  reply  without  looking  up, 
and  tramped  on.  Over  the  tussock  hill  the  sun- 
set lay  red,  and  the  cool  of  the  spring  evening 
grew  as  the  Nor'west  died.  Roddy  climbed 
the  stiff  slope  with  its  needly  spines,  beat 
through  gorse  and  broom  until  the  thunder  of 
the  dredges  in  Changing  Creek  filled  the  air, 
and  the  tent  that  he  shared  with  Fysh  showed 
in  the  shingle  gully  at  his  feet.  By  the  fire 
Fysh  was  feeding  already.  He  paused  with 
his  knife  at  his  mouth  to  say: 

"Yer  ain't  got  much  time  ter  go  wastin', 
kid." 

Roddy  poured  strong  tea  from  the  billy; 
drank  again  and  again;  clawed  oilskins  and 
long  boots  from  beneath  the  bunk,  and  fixed 
on  a  loose  button  with  wire.  Fysh  ate  with 
noise  and  cheerful  haste,  and  Roddy's  nerves 
twitched  in  irritation  and  disgust. 

"Did  yer  tell  Ormond  'bout  that  shovel 
yer  broke  the  'andle  off  of?"  demanded  Fysh, 
licking  the  sugar  out  of  his  pannikin  audibly. 

"Curse  the  shovel,"  said  Roddy. 

Fysh  stared.  Then  he  rose  and  boxed 
Roddy's  ears. 

"I  got  'nother  'and  for  the  other  side  if  you 
give  me  any  back-talk,"  he  said.  "Come  up 
out  o'  that,  an'  get  to  yer  work." 

Roddy   followed   over   the   hill   uncaring; 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     107 

jumped  the  five-foot  tail-race  with  a  stagger; 
dragged  on  the  hip-boots  and  the  oilskins,  and 
stood  by  the  boxes  until  the  moment  when  Gor- 
don should  toss  him  the  shovel.  The  Lion  had 
been  ground-sluicing  these  seven  months,  and 
Roddy  loathed  box-work  above  all  things  in- 
vented. He  turned  his  back  on  the  jet  and 
the  great  sullen  pipes,  and  stared  downhill 
at  the  yellow  of  the  tail-race  where  it  touched 
the  zinc-blue  of  the  Creek.  In  the  manuka 
below  he  heard  the  complaining  voice  of  Kil- 
iat,  and  Ormond's  quick  virile  answers.  Then 
the  wet  shovel  met  his  hands,  and  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  boxes  mechanically. 

There  was  heavy  stuff  coming  down,  and 
the  shake  of  the  trestles  and  the  spume  of  the 
water  made  him  giddy.  Twice  the  race  ran 
abrim,  choking.  Once  she  slopped  over  with 
a  roar  that  brought  Kiliat  up  to  see.  He 
said  that  to  Roddy  which  set  the  boy's  fingers 
itching  on  the  shovel  and  his  eyes  drawing  to 
the  sleek  head  under  the  check  cap.  Ormond 
guessed  the  desire  for  connection,  and  sympa- 
thised. 

"Sheer  clumsiness  and  inattention,"  wound 
up  Kiliat.  "I've  had  my  eye  on  you  for  some 
time;  and — ah — I  could  do  your  work  better 
myself." 

"Do  it,  then,"  said  Roddy,  and  cast  down  the 
shovel. 

Ormond  was  weary  and  irritated  himself; 


108    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

but  there  was  that  in  Roddy's  face  which  made 
him  anxious. 

''Pick  that  up  and  go  on  with  your  work," 
he  said,  sharply.  "Leave  him  alone,  Kiliat, 
and  go  an'  spring  your  little  jokes  on  some- 
one else.  Roddy  hasn't  any  sense  of  humour." 

"He  has  insulted  me,"  raved  Kiliat. 

"You'd  better  go  and  handle  a  slave-gang 
if  you  want  soft  answers  to  your  lip.  Roddy 
won't  offend  again.  I'll  vouch  for  him.  Good- 
night." 

But  Ormond  had  stern  words  for  the  boy 
when  Kiliat  had  gone. 

"If  you  play  up  with  your  work  and  your 
masters  as  you  are  doing,  you'll  find  yourself 
fired  out  very  shortly,"  he  said.  "Art  Scan- 
nell's  to  blame  for  this,  I  suppose " 

"He's  my  mate,"  said  Roddy,  sullenly. 

"Then  your  mate  will  have  to  find  you  an- 
other billet  before  long,  if  you're  not  careful. 
Remember  what  I  say,  Roddy.  If  I  sweat 
myself  I  make  my  men  sweat  too,  and  you 
haven't  tightened  your  traces  this  fortnight." 

He  left  Roddy  alone  in  the  darkening  night, 
with  the  work  that  took  toll  of  the  boy's  body 
and  freed  his  mind  to  search  in  morbid  terror 
through  Lou's  words.  Down  in  the  desolate 
creek-bed  each  clump  of  flax  and  slender  cab- 
bage-tree was  alive  with  its  Maori  birthright 
of  mystery  and  gloom,  and  the  roar  of  the 
water  shut  him  in  on  himself  relentlessly. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     109 

The  pale  saffron  of  the  after-glow  called 
Ormond  from  his  hut  to  the  power-house.  Here 
he  switched  on  the  electric  light,  locked  the 
door,  and  went  over  to  Fysh  at  the  jet.  The 
spark  of  light  jumped  before  him  from  lamp 
to  lamp,  shutting  out  the  wild  hills  of  dead 
manuka  and  distance  with  a  solid  wall  of  black. 
Under  the  near  lamp-post  the  jet  spouted  from 
a  four-inch  nozzle,  scoring  up  the  rock  and 
down  as  Fysh's  hand  swayed  it.  Ormond 
watched  for  two  minutes  with  keen  eyes  and 
tight  lips.  He  had  been  up  at  the  penstock  all 
day,  and  that  was  an  eighteen-mile  walk  all 
told.  The  clipped  hour  since  his  return  had 
been  crowded  with  Kiliat's  complaints;  and 
Ormond  steadied  himself  under  the  light  be- 
fore he  trusted  his  voice  to  speak. 

The  rock  shivered  where  the  jet  struck  it, 
and  sunk  forward  in  a  puddle  of  yellowish 
wash.  Fysh  dipped  his  wrist  a  fraction,  and 
the  water  dug  out  a  big  manuka  bush,  tossing 
it  over  into  the  night  beyond.  Then  the  steady 
roar  blattered  on  rock  again,  sending  a  comb 
of  white  smoke  above  the  light-arc. 

"What's  all  that  waste  water  doing  round 
the  junction?"  demanded  Ormond,  bringing 
his  mouth  to  the  other's  ear. 

"She's  leakin',"  explained  Fysh. 

"Leaking!  The  !  Why,  you're  using 

the  second  head,  you  eternal !"  Ormond 

jumped  for  the  two-way  cock.  "Get  up  to  the 


110    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

other  nozzle,   I   tell  you."      He   swung  the 
handles  round  with  a  jerk,  and  at  the  ceasing 
of  the  thunder  Fysh  spoke. 

"Kiliat  said  as  we  was  to  use  this  beast;" 
he  shook  the  dribbling  nozzle:  "said  as  how 
it  was  bigger." 

"Kiliat  be — oh,  all  right.  He  didn't  know 
it  was  leaking,  I  suppose.  Change  over.  Keep 
her  at  that,  and  I'll  overhaul  this  in  the  morn- 
ing. Just  the  bolts  worked  loose,  I  expect." 

Fysh  sniggered  as  he  turned,  and  Ormond's 
hands  came  out  of  his  pockets  in  a  flash.  But 
he  dropped  them,  swung  on  his  heel,  and 
tramped  through  clayey  mullock  until  the  tail 
of  light  flickered  out  over  yellow  wash  in  the 
boxes  and  the  white  of  Roddy's  face.  The  un- 
derstanding of  Fysh's  half-laugh  sung  through 
Ormond's  head,  and  brought  a  roughness  to 
his  voice. 

"Roddy!  There's  heavy  stuff  in  the  corner. 
Watch  it  below  the  half-way,  for  one  ripple  is 
cracked." 

"Yes,"  said  Roddy,  and  hopped  into  the 
boxes,  loosing  a  block  with  one  masterly  kick 
of  the  shovel. 

Ormond  dropped  his  head  on  his  chest,  and 
went  down-hill  with  a  sure  swift  foot  among 
the  raffle  of  dead  scrub  and  fallen-in  shafts 
and  stones.  The  grate  of  wash  and  the  snarl 
of  the  jet  passed  out  behind,  and  down  on  the 
level  of  tjie  Changing  Creek  was  pale  star- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    111 

light  and  a  muggy  chill  dampness.  He  slung 
along  the  half -yard  track  under  the  bank,  and 
came  to  the  two  dredges  that  sat  at  the  corner, 
glaring  electric  light,  and  pouring  out  muddy 
water  unendingly.  Ormond  cursed  their  fat 
squat  prosperity,  swung  himself  up  to  the 
gorse  and  broom  of  the  hill-top,  took  the  town- 
ship street  at  its  lower  end,  and  hammered  on 
Father  Denis'  door.  A  candle  glimmered  in 
the  dark  passage,  and  Ormond  spoke  to  the 
glint  of  it. 

"Anyone  here,  Father?  I'm  coming  in  to 
talk." 

The  priest's  quick  ear  caught  the  tension  in 
Ormond's  tone.  He  laid  a  fat  hand  on  the 
door,  and  shut  it. 

"There  is  not,  then.  I'm  just  after  finish- 
ing me  tea — you'll  wait  for  a  pipe,  Ormond? 
Sure,  you've  let  me  smoke  alone  these  ten 
nights.  Busy?  Uh-h!  When  were  ye  any- 
thing else?  Not  that  chair.  Ye  cracked  it 
last  toime  wid  yer  fooleries — there's  tobacco  be- 
hind ye,  man.  Aye;  that  tin's  the  brand  ov 
yer  own." 

Ormond  lit  up  with  unsteady  hands,  draw- 
ing the  life  in  broken,  impatient  puffs.  Father 
Denis  lowered  his  bulk  into  the  worn  leathern 
chair  opposite,  and  made  a  blue  veil  of  smoke 
between  the  two.  For  a  good  pipe  loosens  the 
tongue  and  shelters  the  face:  and  these  are  the 
two  essentials  for  an  unburdening  of  the 


112     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

The  little  bee-clock  on  the  mantel-shelf  made 
troubled  conversation,  and  once  in  every  few 
minutes  a  cart  rattled  an  answer  from  the 
street.  The  fire-light  was  on  Father  Denis' 
treasures;  and  the  face  of  the  girl  on  the  wall 
laughed  once,  as  though,  from  across  the  Great 
Space,  she  saw  and  approved  the  shaping  of 
the  lives  before  her.  But  the  two  men  smoked 
silently. 

The  priest  moved  first;  grunted;  heaved 
himself  forward  in  his  chair. 

"If  I  were  behind  the  gratin',  Ormond,  I'd 
have  ye  up  tu  the  confessional  in  less  toime 
than  this.  Have  ye  killed  a  directhor,  then?" 

Ormond  started.  Then  he  recrossed  his  legs 
and  lay  back. 

"Oh,  it's  only  the  same  old  thing;"  his  voice 
was  carefully  careless.  "Don't  you  know 
what  I've  come  to  you  for?  You  can't  do 
anything." 

"I  don't  mean  tu  thry,  sure.  The  sowls  ov 
men  take  all  the  tinkerin'  I  can  give  widout 
goin'  sakin'  tu  the  dredges  an'  sluices." 

"You'd  find  j^our  work  cut  out  if  you  came 
seeking  to  the  Lion,"  said  Ormond,  bitterly. 
"She's  going  to  pieces.  To  pieces,  poor  old 
girl!  Just  for  want  of  a  little  of  the  money 
those  confounded  directors  are  sucking  out  of 
her.  I've  written  to  them;"  he  sat  up,  and  his 
words  came  with  a  rush.  "I've  written  and 
written.  And  I've  laced  Bert  Kiliat  till  I  mar- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     113 

vel  that  he  doesn't  try  to  stoush  me.  I  some- 
times wish  he  would." 

"I  believe  ye,"  said  Father  Denis  dryly. 

"Heaven  knows  how  he  has  the  face  to  call 
himself  a  manager.  Manager!  Taking  it  all 
through,  he  doesn't  put  in  more  than  one  half- 
day  a  week  at  the  claim.  One  half -day!  Then 
he  goes  back  to  the  hotel,  or  up  to  the  Scan- 
nells',  and  writes  up  reports.  Manager! 
There's  not  a  sluicing-hand  in  all  Otago  knows 
less  about  hydraulics  than  he  does." 

O'  coorse.  Every  man  wud  like  tu  be  the 
handle  ov  the  spade.  It's  niver  that  easy 
worrking  wid  a  f ut  on  yer  shoulder  all  the  day. 
But  there's  betther  men  than  yersilf  done  ut, 
Ormond." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  the  handle.  D'you 
think  I'm  minding  what  it  is  to  me?  Kiliat 
can  call  me  a  digger  instead  of  working  over- 
seer, if  it  pleases  him.  I  don't  care.  But  it's 
the  old  Lion  herself — the  claim — and  all  the 
shareholders  who  will  suffer  for  this  rotting. 
That's  what's  driving  me  wild!" 

He  flung  through  the  half-lighted  room 
restlessly.  The  priest  bit  his  thumb-nail  and 
frowned.  He  was  a  worker  himself,  and  he 
understood. 

"Can't  ye  git  howld  on  the  bhoys  anyways? 
A  man  in  his  sinses  wud  see  ye  can't  worrk  a 
claim  widout  money,  sure." 

".They  are  not  in  their  senses,  then  I  sup- 


114    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

pose.  They  are  idiots.  Blind,  deaf  idiots — 
and  I  wish  to  Heaven  they  were  dumb  too. 
They  stew  away  in  their  own  juice  down  in 
town,  an'  put  all  my  letters  in  the  waste-paper 
basket.  What?  Bert  Kiliat's  the  only  one  of 
'em  all  who  has  been  up  to  see  it,  and  he's  about 
as  much  good  as  a  sick-headache.  His  father 
has  told  him  that  expenses  must  be  kept  down. 
That's  all  he  can  say  when  I  show  him  a  leaky 
pipe  spitting  like  a  cat.  Curse  him!" 

"Tut-t-t!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Father.  But — you 
don't  see  the  futile  puerility  of  it  all.  Twenty- 
three  miles  of  race,  and  two  and  three  quarters 
of  pipes,  and  a  twelve-inch  plant.  I  tell  you,  it 
needs  constant  outlay  to  keep  it  in  order.  And 
this  has  had  nothing  spent  on  it  for  a  year.  I'm 
sick  of  asking " 

Ormond  came  back  to  the  mantel-shelf, 
crossed  his  arms  on  it,  and  dropped  his  head. 
His  nerves  were  strung  to  the  tightness  which 
in  a  woman  would  be  hysteria.  Father  Denis 
got  up  heavily,  and  put  his  hands  on  the 
stooped  shoulders. 

"There's  no  credit  owin*  ye  in  takin'  yer 
whippin',  Ormond.  We  all  have  tu  du  that  wan 
toime  or  another.  Bhut  ye  can  boite  on  the 
bullet,  can't  ye?  Or  there's  nothin'  of  a  man 
tu  ye  bhut  the  clothes." 

Ormond  did  not  move.  He  was  squarely 
and  strongly  built,  with  the  spade  fingers  and 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     115 

lean  set  jaw  of  the  practical  engineer.  But 
to-night  he  was  weak  as  a  little  child.  Just  the 
half-laugh  of  one  of  the  men  that  he  ruled  had 
overset  his  strength  for  the  time. 

"It's  a  great  thing  to  be  a  man,  isn't  it?"  he 
said,  indistinctly.  "And  to  slave  out  your  soul 
to  do  your  work  honestly — and  to  get  no  credit 
-no  help- 

"This  isn't  the  talk  ye  gave  Randal  an'  me 
once,  Ormond.  Where's  yer  belief  in  yersilf 
gone  tu,  bhoy?" 

Ormond  laughed  hysterically. 

"Oh,  go  on!  Go  on!  Tell  me  how  much 
we've  got  to  thank  God  for!" 

"Ut's  yersilf  hasn't  much,  if  that's  all 
the  spirit  that's  in  ye.  Let  it  go,  then. 
Ut's  a  man's  worrk,  an'  not  yours  at  all, 
at  all." 

Father  Denis  knew  when  to  use  the  whip. 
But  it  did  not  rouse  Ormond. 

"I  can't,"  he  said.  "I've  given  her  so  much 
that  I — I  can't  go  back  on  her.  She's  had 
seven  years  of  my  life,  and  I  believe  she  knows 
it.  I  could  never  work  for  another  claim  as 
I've  worked  for  her.  You  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  fight  for  her  back  in  the  hills  when  the 
rains  are  stripping  the  faces,  and  there's  an 
even  chance  of  losing  half  the  race  in  a  few  min- 
utes. I've  done  that  six  times  this  year.  And 
the  flume  up  near  the  pent-stock  is  getting 
shaky — I  was  up  to  my  middle  in  it  most  of  to- 


116    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

day.  That  accounts  for  the  drivel  I'm  talking. 
Why  don't  you  kick  me  out,  Father?" 

"Faith!  there's  niver  an  inch  of  ye  softer 
than  the  toe  of  me  boot — unless  ut's  yer  head. 
Ye've  got  somethin'  out  of  servin'  the  Lion, 
Ormond." 

"Yes,"  said  Ormond.  He  picked  up  his 
pipe,  and  sat  down  again,  laughing  half- 
ashamed.  "For  a  chap  has  no  right  to  kick  up 
a  shine  over  his  daily  work,"  he  said. 

Then  as  the  light  caught  the  priest's  face,  he 
added  quickly:  "You've  a  trouble  of  your  own 
to-night,  Father?" 

"I  have,  then.  Did  ye  hear  ov  ut?  A  sob 
blows  news  quicker  than  ahl  the  laughs  of  the 
worrld  will  du — aye;  ye  foight  for  yer  iron 
scrapin's  an'  driftwud  wid  Nature,  Ormond. 
I'm  foightin'  worse  down  here — wid  the  divil 
thrippin'  sowls  be  the  heels,  an'  ahl  the  evil  ov 
the  earth  tu  give  power  tu  his  elbow  when  ut's 
needed." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Ormond,  blowing  the 
smoke  aside. 

"Ould  Buggy  was  found  dyin'  in  his  bed  this 
mornin',  along — ye  know  the  lonely  road  where 
he  lived?  Clane  starved  tu  a  shtick  he  was,  wid 
niver  a  penny  an'  niver  a  crust  tu  bless  him. 
An'  he  that  kep  a  servant  an'  was  rowlin'  in 
money." 

"Poor  old  beggar!  What'd  he  done?  Sunk 
it  in  mines?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    117 

"Ut  is  Jimmie  Elaine  or  Ted  Douglas  sunk 
ut  for  him.  Niver  a  man  he  let  into  his  dure 
bhut  they  two  an'  his  body-servant.  An'  sorra 
a  truth  cud  they  git  out  ov  him.  'Niver  scowld 
the  lad,'  he  says.  Bhut  which  lad  he  niver  said. 
Sapped  him  dhry,  and  left  him  tu  starve.  Ut's 
Jimmie  they're  blamin' — I  had  the  ould  mother 
ov  him  down  on  me  just  now.  He's  the  only, 
choild  she  iver  had — saints  help  her!" 

"Which  does  Murray  think  it  was?" 

"Sure  did  ye  iver  know  Murray  say  what  he 
did  not  want  tu?  He  is  on  the  thrack  ov  some- 
thin' — an'  Jimmie  is  wan  ov  me  own  bhoys.  If 
ut  is  him,  I'll  break  his  head  on  him  though  he 
comes  tellin'  me  at  the  Confessional — God  for- 
give me.  And  yit — if  ut's  because  I've  failed 
somewhere  in  me  duty " 

"That's  rot,"  said  Ormond  promptly. 
"You've  got  the  heart  of  every  Roman  in  the 
district — and  of  half  the  other  denominations 
too.  You  just  spend  yourself  for  them, 
Father ," 

"And  wudn't  I  du  ut  twice  over — for  ivery 
mother's  son  ov  thim?"  The  yearning  tender- 
ness of  his  face  shook  his  voice,  and  Ormond's 
eyes  drew  unthinkingly  to  the  picture  on  the 
wall.  "Aye,  luve  shpells  bigger  worrds  than 
the  four  letthers  ov  ut's  name — how's  that  bhoy 
ov  yours  that  Randal  shpoke  tu  ye  about?" 

"I've  switched  him  on  to  night-duty,  and  he 
doesn't  like  it.  And  I've  rowed  him,  and  he 


118    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

doesn't  like  that.  I  can't  do  more.  A  chap 
isn't  responsible  for  his  men  when  they're  not 
under  his  eye." 

"Bedad!  if  more  ov  ye  were  ut'd  be  a  dif- 
ferent worrld  from  wan  round  corner  tu  the 
other!  Du  ye  iver  see  Randal  these  days?" 

"Sometimes.  He's  granite.  I'll  never  get 
any  hold  on  him,  Father." 

"He's  been  hoeing  a  shtiff  row  of  his  own  if 
there's  anything  in  township  talk.  Ormond, 
if  iver  he  comes  tu  ye  for  help,  give  ut.  He 
will  not  be  comin'  tu  many,  that  same  bhoy." 

"All  right.  It's  not  likely,  though."  Or- 
mond got  up,  and  shook  himself.  "I  must 
scoot,  Father.  And — I  wish  I  hadn't  worried 
you  to-night." 

The  priest  looked  round  the  low  room  with 
the  dance  of  the  fire  in  its  corners. 

"It'll  be  a  bad  day  for  me  when  I  turrn  me 
face  from  a  man  wantin'  annythin'  that  I  can 
give  tu  him,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BLAKE'S  bar-parlour  was  empty,  with  fire- 
light cloaking  the  grease-stains  on  the  walls, 
and  the  rings  that  the  glasses  and  jugs  had 
scored  on  the  table.  It  was  Lou  who  strolled 
in,  unobserved,  through  the  side-door,  picked 
an  accordeon  out  of  the  wood-box,  and  began 
to  make  music  in  the  shadows.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, the  accordeon  belongs  to  hot  evenings  out- 
side the  whares,  and  the  smoke  and  talk  of 
loafing  shearers,  with  the  murmur  of  penned 
sheep  to  help  out  the  halt  of  stiffened  fingers. 
Or  to  black  nights  round  the  camp-fires,  where 
the  "honk,  honk"  of  wild  swan  and  the  sudden 
slow  roar  of  a  landslip  far  up  in  the  ranges  are 
familiar  as  the  old  simple  tunes.  Or  to  dances 
in  the  Town  Hall,  with  a  girl  to  laugh  back 
when  Danny  or  Trefusis  bang  at  "Daisy  Ball" 
from  the  platform,  and  the  throb  of  feet  covers 
the  bass.  But  the  accordeon  in  Lou's  hands 
was  a  vivid  restless  something  that  roused 
strange  unnameable  desires  and  longings,  such 
as  no  plain  working  man  had  any  right  to. 
For,  everything  having  its  compensations,  evil 
done  may  teach  a  man  the  way  to  the  heart- 

119 


120    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

strings  of  his  kind  when  a  better  duller  soul 
draws  blank. 

Lossin  came  in  from  the  bar,  and  blattered 
the  fire  into  blaze  with  his  heel. 

"Yer  too  bloomin'  uncanny  fur  the  dark, 
Lou,"  he  said.  "Sing  us  somethin'  rousin', 
can't  yer?" 

Lou  flung  out  "Nazareth"  in  a  rollicking 
waltz  with  the  double  bass,  and,  Murray,  on  his 
way  up  to  bed,  came  in  to  expostulate.  For  he 
had  not  quite  forgot  the  reverence  of  his  child- 
hood. But  instead,  he  stared  at  Lou  in  the 
light,  saying: 

"Heavens  above,  man!  What  old  shaft  have 
you  been  falling  into?" 

Lou's  forehead  carried  six  colours,  and  his 
jaw  was  cut.  Moreover,  his  clean-shaped  nose 
looked  lumpy.  Ten  voices  gave  virile  explan- 
ation, and  Murray  picked  up  understanding 
piecemeal. 

"What  does  Steve  look  like?"  he  asked. 

"Faix,  the  divil'll  mend  Lou  fust,"  cried 
Tod.  "Did  I  not  tell  ye  we  wud  git  somethin' 
out  of  North-o'- Sunday?  Throth  an'  bedad, 
Scannell  will  be  like  to  putt  you  both  out  of 
that  supposin'  there's  anny  more  of  it." 

"And  where  do  I  come  in?"  demanded  Mur- 
ray, sizzling  a  wet  boot-sole  on  the  bars. 

The  laughing  mock  of  the  music  caught 
Lou's  voice  as  he  answered: 

"Next  time.     There'll  be  one  of  us  to  run 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    121 

to  earth  then,  Murray — and  a  pop-gun  or  two 
at  the  end  of  it." 

"My  lad,  you're  a  rip,"  muttered  Murray 
underbreath.  "And  Father  Denis  wants  the 
handling  of  you!  He'll  need  gloves  for  it!" 

Guise  pushed  open  the  side-door,  and  blinked 
round  the  room  uncertainly.  He  was  a  "re- 
mittance man,"  and  that  carries  its  own  stig- 
ma in  the  Colonies. 

"Blanky  Revivalist  Meeting?"  he  inquired 
politely.  "Who's  doin'  the  prayin'?" 

"I  am,"  said  Mogger.  "Me  dad's  talkin'  o' 
marryin'  agin,  an'  I'm  prayin'  fur  suthin'  as'll 
stop  him.  Two  granddads  an'  a  granny!  I 
got  the  up-keep  o'  them  a'reddy.  I  can't  stand 
any  more." 

Guise  crossed  to  Roddy's  corner,  and  his 
blaring  voice  rose. 

"I'll  show  yer  suthin'  as  I  can't  stand  any 
more.  Git  out  o'  this,  you  flappin'  box-man! 
Think  I  sat  wi'  my  head  agin  that  wall  for  six 
years  ter  be  turned  out  by  you!"  He  caught 
Roddy  by  the  collar,  forcing  his  startled  face 
to  the  grease-smudge  on  the  wall.  "Think  I 
hall-marked  it  that  way  fur  you?" 

Tod  received  Roddy  as  Guise  punted  him 
across  the  room,  and  gave  him  the  space  on  the 
floor  between  his  own  boots  and  Murray's. 
There  was  neither  authority  nor  conversation 
in  Murray  this  night.  He  was  dog-tired  after 
a  bitter  ten  days'  chase  which  had  brought  Dick 


122    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Wepeha  to  justice,  and  the  warmth  of  the  fire 
was  grateful.  Tod's  soft  brogue  cut  the 
smoke-reek. 

"It  is  not  wid  elber-grease  ye  wud  be  after 
makin'  a  mark  annywhere,  Guise,  me  bos- 
thoon,"  he  remarked. 

Lou  grinned  above  the  low-breathed  accor- 
deon. 

"Truth  is  a  good  thing  to  have  on  tap,"  he 
said.  "But  you  need  to  draw  it  into  the  jug  of 
tact.  Ye'll  get  kiboshed  for— 

Here  Guise  knocked  out  his  pipe  on  Tod's 
head,  and  Blake  came  in  from  the  bar  to  sort 
out  disputants  with  an  unsparing  hand. 

"Who's  looking  for  trouble?"  he  demanded, 
jerking  Roddy  out  of  the  ruck  with  the  de- 
cision of  long  practice.  There  was  red  pipe- 
ash  inside  Roddy's  collar;  but  his  fear  of  au- 
thority was  hotter. 

"I  never  did — I   didn't  mean  to  make  a 

row " 

'Tain't  necessary  to  unload  excuses  on  the 
market  till  we  tell  you  we're  asking  for  un- 
adulterated lies,"  said  Blake.  "You  get  away 
home,  Roddy " 

"You  let  Roddy  alone,"  struck  in  Lou,  "un- 
less you  want  to  chuck  me  too,  Blake. 
Roddy's  my  guest " 

"Which  is  why  Randal  ain't  bin  down  these 
ten  nights,"  explained  Ike.  "Why  ain't  yer 
on  night-shift,  Roddy?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     123 

"Fluming's  broke  in  Paddy's  Gully,"  said 
the  Packer.  "Yer  could  hear  Ormond  swear- 
in'  from  here  till  day  before  yest'd'y  if  yer 
stood  out  in  the  wind.  'Sides,  it's  Guise's 
blame— an'  Tod's." 

"Bedad,  if  it's  foight  ye're  spilin'  for,  come 
here,"  cried  Tod.  "I'll  be  afther  aitin*  ye  up 
wan  be  wan,  an'  niver  knowin'  it." 

"Go  an'  hit  somethin'  yer  own  size,  little 
man.  Where's  Danny?" 

"Where  should  he  be  but  tellin'  Suse  'bout 
his  ballotin'  ?  He's  in  for  land  what  they  say'll 
carry  three  sheep  to  the  acre,  an'  p'raps  a 
can 

"Sure  then,  he's  a  sheep-farmer  a'ready," 
crowed  Tod.  "Catched  a  tick  on  to  himself 
yesterday  an'  sint  clane  away  for  his  wool- 
sacks. Nothin'  loike  takin'  toime  be  the  tail — 
an'  hangin'  on — if  ye  want  to  git  there." 

The  amble  of  hoofs  came  down  the  street, 
and  Rogers  spoke  with  the  certainty  of  obser- 
vation. 

"That's  Pipi  Wepeha's  old  boss.  Bring  him 
along  in,  Blake.  He's  a  three-act  comic  hopra 
when  he  gits  goin'." 

The  Packer  blinked  over  to  Murray. 

"He's  come  along  ter  thank  yer  fur  givin* 
his  son  free  lodgin',  Murray,"  he  wheezed. 

Murray  yawned,  his  head  against  the  chim- 
ney-piece. 

"Let  him,"  he  said  wearily.    His  shield  was 


124    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

down  for  the  time,  and  he  did  not  care  who 
knew  it.  For  there  was  nothing  more  shame- 
ful than  body-ache  behind.  But  this  was  the 
last  day  that  Murray  laid  aside  his  armour  be- 
fore man. 

"He's  thursty  be  the  sound  of  corks,"  said 
Tod.  "Lou — ye're  all  koinds  of  a  villain." 

The  accordeon  crept  slowly,  mysteriously 
into  one  of  the  old,  old  Maori  chants  that  few 
Europeans  dare  meddle  with.  Above  it  Lou 
was  singing  softly  in  the  liquid  Maori  tongue. 
To  the  pakeha  who  did  not  understand,  the 
tune  carried  a  quiver  and  throb  that  hurried  the 
blood  in  the  veins.  To  him  who  knew,  it  was 
a  call  to  strip  the  clothes  of  civilisation  off  his 
senses.  And  this  call  comes  more  often  than 
the  world  guesses.  Ted  Douglas  frowned. 

"You're  going  to  give  Murray  a  tough  bone 
to  chew,  Lou,"  he  said. 

"Well,  it's  a  free  show.  You  can  watch  him 
chew  it,"  said  Lou,  cheerfully. 

Ike  shivered,  and  Mogger  noticed  the  ten- 
sion of  his  body  with  a  puzzled  contempt.  To 
three  Colonials  in  ten  the  great  Things  that 
God  has  made,  and  that  man  cannot  conquer, 
send  their  souls  awash  with  secret  gropings 
and  beliefs  in  more  than  can  be  lathered  into 
shape  by  the  tongue.  The  remainder  take 
their  schooling  because  the  State  orders  it,  and 
their  wetting  on  the  wild  ranges  because 
Nature  orders  it,  and  gain  just  so  much  knowl- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     125 

edge  from  both  Teachers  as  enables  them  to 
be  treated  with  parallel  indifference.  This 
nails  the  understanding  flat  on  the  bed-rock 
of  fact;  and,  although  a  new  country  can  de- 
sire no  better  foundation,  it  is  the  touch  of 
mystery  and  the  forward-flung  desire  to  make 
out  to  the  unknown — to  the  Back  of  Beyond, 
that  will  shape  the  battlements  and  the  cor- 
nices in  a  new  free  strength  that  has  no 
copy. 

"Begorra,"  cried  Tod,  promptly,  "if  he's 
clane  an'  clever  enough  to  shmack  that  smoile 
of  yersilf's  into  another  shape,  me  boyo,  I'll 
take  him  out,  an'  trate  him  till  he'll  niver  be 
foindin'  his  way  to  the  saddle  at  all,  at  all." 

Someone  sniggered  approval;  then  the  door 
swung  wide,  and  Pipi  Wepeha  came  through. 

To  Murray  all  Maoris  were  a  beastly  nui- 
sance, and  Pipi  was  a  dirty  one  as  well.  But 
he  cut  his  nails  and  his  hair  thrice  yearly,  and 
his  slop-made  clothes  were  knotted  together 
with  flax.  He  squatted  by  the  fire  with  soft 
words  and  coarse  cunning  jokes;  and  Lou, 
playing  tenderly,  guessed  well  what  was  to 
come  of  it  all. 

Pipi's  speech  held  the  halt  of  a  tongue  learnt 
over-late,  and  he  helped  it  forward  with  the 
dumb  vivid  talk  of  brown  lean  arms  and  fin- 
gers. Wild  stories  he  told ;  and  Lou  gave  the 
keynotes  unerringly;  and  the  crowd  round  the 
fire  fell  silent,  drew  closer,  flinched,  or  shut  up 


126    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

their  hands  as  the  red  fire  of  sin  and  courage 
and  lust  and  mystery  flicked  round  them  to 
Pipi's  swift  words.  When  the  brain  is  over- 
wrought, the  body  is  more  fitted  to  touch  that 
universe  of  meaning  which  lies  behind  speech 
and  movement.  A  man  bears  this  learning 
alone  and  unshowing,  as  Murray  bore  it  now 
in  his  corner,  with  one  booted  leg  crossed  on 
his  knee,  and  a  numb  dread  sliding  down  on 
the  thickening  shadows  and  the  tightening 
silence  of  the  men. 

Above  the  accordeon  Lou's  face  alone  was 
bright  in  the  flame-light.  It  was  beautiful 
and  wicked  as  the  stories  that  Pipi  told.  Stor- 
ies of  centuries  on  centuries  of  uncleansed  lives 
with  their  desire  and  their  strength  and  their 
elusive  horror  which  slips  between  words  as 
sand  between  the  fingers.  Pipi's  white  hair 
twitched  on  his  scalp.  He  leaned  where  the 
light  on  the  shrunken  skin  struck  the  tattoo- 
spirals  to  the  likeness  of  fibres  from  whence 
the  leaf -greenness  has  rotted.  His  eyes  were  as 
the  yolk  of  a  stale  egg — blotched,  blood- 
flecked,  and  smurred,  and  his  speech  plaited 
coarse  white-man  talk  with  the  delicate  imagery 
of  the  Maori. 

They  were  things  new  to  Murray  that  he 
told.  Things  that  no  Englishman  has  yet 
learnt — nor  will  learn  while  English  soil  gives 
him  birth.  For  they  are  the  breath  of  New 
Zealand.  They  come  in  the  glad  winds,  and 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     127 

the  long  sweep  of  tussock  over  billowed  downs, 
and  the  awful  purity  of  the  snow-ranges,  and 
the  evil  derision  of  the  keas,  and  the  gay  reck- 
lessness of  the  gallopping  winds.  All  this  is  in 
the  blood  of  a  Colonial.  But  an  outsider  can- 
not tabulate  it  when  he  comes  to  the  handling 
of  the  man. 

The  fire  fell,  and  out  along  the  street  noises 
lessened  and  died.  And  yet  Pipi  held  the  men 
while  the  stillness  ran  prickly  on  each  spine, 
and  stared,  horror-wide,  in  Roddy's  eyes.  Lou 
laughed,  drawing  a  great  double-chord  from 
the  keys. 

"You're  an  immoral  old  devil,  Pipi,"  he  said. 
"And  Roddy  will  have  a  fit  very  shortly  if  you 
feed  him  any  more  of  that  stuff." 

"He  aha "  began  Pipi,  clutching  a  dirty 

claw  on  Roddy's  collar. 

Murray  slung  the  boy  aside. 

"Don't  you  play  up  with  him,  you  old 
heathen,"  he  said.  "The  kid  has  never  done 
you  any  harm.  I'm  your  meat  if  you  want  to 
sharpen  your  teeth." 

The  easy  defiance  of  the  man  showed  in  the 
back-swing  of  his  shoulders,  and  the  smile  on 
his  lips.  But  every  nerve  in  him  was  awake. 

Pipi's  hands  went  out  in  quick  gesture. 
Then  he  turned. 

"For  you — apopo,"  he  said.    "E  noho  ra." 

"Haere  ra,"  said  Murray  cheerfully,  and 
went  up  the  passage,  drawn  by  the  click  of  bil- 


128    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

liard  balls  where  Danny  was  fighting  the 
marker  on  level  ground. 

In  the  dark  by  the  door  when  the  men  had 
passed  Pipi  caught  Roddy's  sleeve. 

"You  know  te  room — te  place  where  Murray 
sleep?"  he  demanded,  underbreath. 

"Ye-es,"  said  Roddy. 

"Ah!  Kapai.  You  go  then.  Kia  tupato 
koe.  Bring  me  Murray's  sock — his  handker- 
chief— his  necktie.  Haere.  Bring  one  thing. 
Anything.  Go,  then." 

The  ground  was  heaving  under  Roddy's 
feet,  and  he  knew  that  his  voice  was  uncertain. 
So  did  the  tohungas  of  old  take  a  half-worn 
thing  from  the  man  whom  they  meant  to  de- 
stroy. 

"I  can't,"  he  said,  his  words  bobbing  in  his 
throat. 

Pipi  whipped  a  handkerchief  from  the  boy's 
side-pocket. 

"No?    Kore  rawa?    Then  I  have — this." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Roddy,  and  ran  upstairs, 
and  snatched  a  red  necktie  from  the  hook  by 
Murray's  looking-glass.  The  sweat  was  cold 
on  his  face  when  he  received  his  handkerchief 
again  and  went  out  alone  into  the  night. 

Fysh  reported  next  day  that  Roddy  had 
come  into  camp  with  eyes  blank  as  a  tea-cup, 
and  a  tongue  that  could  not  join  two  words 
straightly.  He  further  remarked  that  if  Rod- 
dy was  going  to  get  the  horrors  from  seeing 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     129 

other  mpn  drink — his  own  breath  being  sweet 
as  a  baby's — the  matter  would  be  delivered  into 
Ormond's  hands  very  promptly. 

"Ask  Murray  if  Roddy  is  the  only  fellow 
likely  to  get  the  horrors  without  drink,"  sug- 
gested Lou;  but  he  gave  no  explanation  what- 
ever when  Fysh  demanded  it. 

It  was  in  the  next  week  that  Murray  deter- 
mined to  go  up  to  the  All  Alone  and  call  on 
Jimmie — quite  privately  and  artlessly — to 
elicit  information.  He  had  drawn  blank  on 
forty-two  counts  already,  and  only  the  last  ex- 
tremity would  have  made  him  insult  Ted 
Douglas  by  questions  where  he  mustered  with 
his  fellows  out  back  on  the  ranges. 

Night  caught  Murray  in  the  flax-gully 
where  the  first  blink  of  Jimmie's  light  showed 
on  the  spur,  and  he  stumbled  up  through 
scratching  matakuri  and  Wild  Irishman, 
jerked  the  door-latch,  and  cast  his  swag  on  the 
mud  floor. 

"I'm  wanting  a  feed  and  a  shakedown,  Jim- 
mie," he  said,  "for  I  can't  make  Lachlan's 
camp  to-night." 

Jimmie  was  squatted  by  the  fire  with  his  lit- 
tle pinched  face  solemn.  But  he  kicked  the 
sticks  together  in  haste,  slung  the  billy,  swept 
packages  of  rabbit-skins  out  of  the  half -cask 
chair,  and  set  Murray  in  it.  And  there  was  no 
hint  of  fear  in  his  welcome. 

"Took  in  over  this  job,  I  was,"  he  said,  sway- 


130    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

ing  on  his  heels,  and  thumping  more  crackling 
skins  into  a  square.  "Rafferty  contracted  from 
Robertson  fur  the  season,  an'  I  tuk  the  tail- 
end  over  from  Raff.  He  telled  me  there  was 
good  pickin's  in  it." 

"And  aren't  there?"  Murray  was  watching 
him  keenly. 

"Aren't  there?"  Jimmie  spat  on  the  grey  fur 
contemptuously.  "No,  there  ain't!  An'  me 
sweatin'  wi'  trappin'  an'  shootin'  an'  phos- 
phorus— mixin'  me  own  bloomin'  stuff,  too. 
Look  at  me  hands." 

Murray  looked  at  the  deep  burns  that  the 
frost  had  turned  to  living  sores,  and  he  looked 
at  the  narrow  peaked  face  above.  Then  he 
glanced  round  the  little  whare.  For  the  place 
where  a  man  lives  tells  his  character,  let  his 
face  and  speech  lie  as  they  will. 

There  were  holes  in  the  sod  walls  through 
which  past  legions  of  rabbiters  had  let  the 
moon  poke  her  fingers,  uncaring.  Jimmie 
had  stuffed  each  crack  with  tussock,  and  cut  a 
wedge  for  the  cranky  door.  The  hut  was  deso- 
late, dirty  and  empty.  There  were  sacks  in 
the  bunk  with  the  blankets,  and  no  reading 
anywhere  save  a  newspaper  that  had  been  used 
to  wrap  fat.  All  these  things  were  explained 
by  the  darkness  back  of  Jimmie's  eyes,  and  the 
restlessness  of  his  fingers. 

Murray  was  tender  as  a  woman,  for  all  the 
stern  life  that  held  him.  But  he  balanced  the 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     131 

two  finely;  and  just  now,  against  knowledge  of 
the  loneliness  that  eats  to  the  core  of  a  man, 
stood  the  belief  that  the  death  and  starvation 
of  the  old  proud-hearted  Buggy  was  Jimmie's 
sin  alone. 

"What's  troubling  you,  Jimmie?"  he  de- 
manded suddenly. 

Jimmie  hesitated.  Then  he  kicked  out  the 
wedge,  and  the  door  fell  open  to  the  night. 

"Wouldn't  them  blanky  ole  mountings 
trouble  Ole  Nick  hisself  ?"  he  said. 

It  was  not  a  world  for  a  man  to  handle.  It 
was  alive  with  its  own  strong  desolation  and 
its  unbroken  pride.  Peak  on  glistening  peak 
of  everlasting  snow;  black  rugged  ridges; 
slopes  pallid  with  the  rain-death  that  had 
stripped  the  earth  from  them,  and  reefs  of  sul- 
len cloud  smudging  the  cold  stars.  The  snarl 
of  the  river  fighting  through  its  boulders  came 
over  the  shingle  that  sloped  from  the  door,  and 
a  couple  of  Paradise  duck  showed  for  an  in- 
stant against  the  grey  breadth  of  it  as  they  fled 
down  to  the  lower  country  for  nesting. 

"I'd  sooner  hear  silence  than  that  river," 
said  Murray,  and  shivered.  "It's  ghastly  to 
think  you're  the  first  living  man  who's  heard 
its  waters  go  by.  I  don't  like  being  so  near  the 
beginning  of  things  myself." 

"You're  generally  nearer  the  end,"  said  Jim- 
mie, tartly.  Then  his  voice  changed.  "It's 
runnin'  past  the  township  thirty-odd  mile 


132     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

down,  yer  know.  An'  it's  bin  makin'  me  dream 
o'  nights.  There — there  ain't  any  bad  news 
down  ter  the  township,  o'  course?" 

The  keenness  of  the  tracker  ran  into  Mur- 
ray's eyes.  He  shaded  them,  watching  the  lit- 
tle man  folding  the  rabbit-skins. 

"Bad  news?  Let's  see.  The  Corin  girl  has 
hooked  Pat  Armstrong  from  the  Glory,  and 
the  keas  are  rough  on  the  Mains  ewes  all  along 
the  river  downs.  Scannell  has  squads  out 
shooting  every  night,  and  Ted  Douglas  is  near- 
ly off  his  head " 

Jimmie  spilt  the  tea  that  he  was  shaking  into 
the  sputtering  billy. 

"Let  him  go  off  his  head,"  he  said.  "I  'ope 
he  will,  an'  die  of  it.  He  got  me  the  chuck- 
out  from  Mains.  He  as  allers  called  hisself 
my  mate." 

"There  are  folk  who  say  that  he'll  get  him- 
self the  chuck-out  before  long."  Murray's 
every  nerve  was  set  to  observe  the  man  oppo- 
site. "Old  Buggy  is  dead.  Died  alone  of 
starvation.  He  sent  away  the  woman  who 
looked  after  him  because  he  couldn't  pay  her 
wages,  and  he  starved,  the  proud  old  fool,  be- 
cause he  wouldn't  ask  for  help.  He  kept  all 
his  money  in  the  house,  and — some — men — 
say  that  Ted  Douglas  took  it." 

Jimmie  thumped  a  skin  very  flat,  and  he  did 
not  look  up.  At  last  he  said : 

"Ain't  they  'cusing  me  too?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     133 

For  the  first  time  in  memory  Murray's  brain 
was  knocked  flat. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  weakly. 

"An'  that's  what  yer  here  fur?  Roped  in 
Ted  yet?" 

"No." 

"Well,  Ted  done  it.  You  put  Ted  and  me 
face  ter  face  an'  I'll  tell  you  how.  I'm  through 
wi'  my  contrac'  next  week,  an'  I'll  be  along 
then,  if  that's  soon  enough.  Are  it?" 

"How  am  I  to  know  that  you  won't  run?" 
said  Murray,  lightly. 

Jimmie  stood  upright,  and  his  uneven 
breaths  shook  the  loose  shirt. 

"Ted  Douglas  put  shame  on  me  'fore  all  the 
fellers,"  he  said.  "D'yer  think  as  I'll  ever  fur- 
give  him  fur  that?  I'd  kill  him  ef  I  was  big 
enough.  D'yer  think  I'd  lose  this  chanst? 
Murray,  I'd  walk  my  feet  raw  but  I'd  git  the 
nick  on  him  ef  I  had  ter  go  down  ter  the  town- 
ship barefoot." 

Murray  got  up  and  flung  the  door  open. 

"I  call  for  you  this  day  week,"  he  said.  "Ted 
Douglas  will  be  down  from  the  mustering  then. 
And  now,  I  am  going  on  to  Lachlan's.  There's 
not  room  in  this  place  for  you  and  me." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  deep  gully  six  miles  from  the  home- 
stead Randal  and  Moggers  were  stumping.  It 
was  three  years  since  Randal  had  helped  there 
at  the  felling  of  slim  birch  and  great  totara 
and  matai,  and  afterwards  put  a  firestick 
through  the  raffle  of  broken  tree-ferns  and 
earth-laid  branches.  A  few  dead  writhed 
spars  lay  over  the  gully-sides  yet,  although  the 
most  had  been  drawn  for  the  fencing;  and  all 
along  the  bottom,  stumps  raised  their  venom- 
ous heads  in  derision  for  the  men  who  wrought 
with  them. 

Mogger  had  worked  on  a  dredge  once.  He 
came  out  of  the  six-foot  hole  round  a  birch- 
root  and  made  comparisons. 

.  .  .  which  it  carried  the  old  complicated 
'and  machinery,  too.  But  it  was  a  fool  ter  this 
bloomin'  kind  o'  organ'sm.  An'  sech  a  waste 
of  a  hole,  when  as  the  brute  is  out,"  he  added, 
spitting  into  it  thoughtfully.  "Cud  bury  lots 
o'  folk  in  there.  Yer  cud  so." 

"Two  grandads  and  a  granny?"  suggested 
Randal,  changing  his  hands  on  the  axe-shaft, 
and  descending  with  a  slide  into  the  pit  again. 

134 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     135 

"An'  a  step-mother,"  agreed  Mogger,  tuck- 
ing the  tatters  of  his  shirt  inside  his  waist-belt ; 
"an'  here's  Buck  wi'  the  tackle  at  last.  Think 
she's  loose  enough,  Randal?" 

"There's  one  yet — look  out!" 

Mogger  stood  back  while  the  chips  flew, 
whirring  out  of  the  depths  with  a  nasty  hum. 
Randal  was  stripped  to  singlet  and  gungarees, 
and  the  muscles  ran  on  his  hairy  arms  and 
bared  chest.  The  dust  of  the  earth  was  thick 
on  him  before  his  time,  and  the  sweat  dripped 
down  his  lean  face.  Above  the  bark  of  the 
blade  his  breaths  sounded  distinct  as  the  throb 
from  an  engine-room,  and  Mogger  guessed  in 
some  dim  way  that  the  whole  strength  of  the 
man  was  meeting  something  beyond  the  sing- 
ing creaking  root.  But  because,  to  his  belief, 
Randal  had  no  relatives  the  wide  world 
through,  his  guesswork  could  carry  him  no  fur- 
ther. 

The  last  root  snapped  with  an  upward  curl. 
Randal  climbed  out  of  the  open  grave  and 
lay  flat  whilst  his  breath  came  back.  And  the 
roar  of  quick  blood  through  his  ears  and  his 
heart  beat  out  one  tune  as  it  had  beat  it  these 
three  days  past :  "Eflie  and  Kiliat.  Effie  and 
Kiliat."' 

All  the  station  was  saying  it.  All  the  sta- 
tion looked  at  Randal  to  hear  what  he  was  say- 
ing. And  Randal  kept  shut  lips,  and  believed 
and  disbelieved  and  believed  again,  and  could 


136    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

get  no  speech  with  her  day  by  day,  nor  any  an- 
swer to  his  letter,  posted,  as  of  old,  in  the  dead 
laurel  beside  her  window. 

Down  the  gully-side,  among  the  white 
naked  bones  of  dead  bush  Buck  was  coming 
with  his  team  and  his  cheerful  unmusical 
song.  The  sky  was  ruled  hard  along  the 
gully- top;  green-black,  with  angry  red  to 
westward,  and  Randal  came  to  his  feet  in 
weary  haste. 

"Pass  along  the  hauling- tackle,  Mogger. 
Back  'em,  Buck.  Back  'em,  you  idiot.  We're 
going  to  get  a  storm  out  of  this  directly- 
Then  he  swore  as  a  cast  chain  flicked  skin  from 
his  ear  in  its  spinning,  caught  the  hook  at  end 
of  it,  and  forced  it  into  the  horse-shoe  driven 
deep  into  the  stump.  Mogger  wrestled  on  the 
far  side  shouting  directions  as  Buck  brought 
his  team  up  to  the  collar. 

"Get  the  bar,"  said  Randal,  sliding  the  jack 
under  the  root  in  the  only  possible  place,  and 
Mogger  took  up  position  with  the  unerring  ex- 
actness of  one  who  has  done  the  same  thing 
many,  many  times. 

With  soft  voice  and  hands  Buck  drew  from 
the  horses  each  last  inch  they  could  give.  But 
always,  not  being  built  on  ratchet  lines,  the 
purchase  broke  under  struggle  of  straining 
hoofs,  and  the  stump  jammed  on  the  nose  of 
the  jack,  flaying  Randal's  hands  until  he  cast 
the  thing  aside  in  disgust. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     137 

"Where  are  those  extra  pulleys?"  he  de- 
manded. "And  I  want  the  reins." 

He  squeezed  the  thick  rope  through  the 
sheave,  took  the  side-strain  with  a  rooted  matai 
and  two  pulleys  added,  and  began  the  game 
anew  with  the  fall-rope  shrieking  above  the 
tense  hum  of  quivering  chains.  The  stump 
rocked  and  groaned,  moved  an  inch,  settled 
back.  Mogger  beat  out  a  place  for  his  bar 
and  stood  on  the  end  of  it  for  leverage.  He 
escaped  a  broken  neck  by  methods  best  known 
to  himself  when  he  came  up  headlong  from  the 
pit  to  grasp  Buck  about  the  middle  and  bring 
him  to  earth.  Randal  was  tired  to  his  heart, 
and  the  argument  that  scattered  in  sputtering 
laughter  did  not  interest  him.  He  sat  on  the 
jack,  staring  down  the  grey  length  of  the  gully 
where  a  thousand  little  fires  from  the  root- 
piles  built  through  the  weeks  fluttered  and 
winked  wicked  eyes.  They  were  telling  Ran- 
dal that  there  were  a  thousand  more  fires  to 
make  before  his  work  was  done,  and  that,  until 
that  day,  there  would  be  no  peace  for  him.  Be- 
cause it  is  required  of  every  man  that  he  bring 
his  duties  full  tale  to  the  Judgment  Seat. 

Then  Art  Scannell  came  break-neck  down 
the  gully,  sitting  loose  and  graceful  as  the 
black  mare  took  the  burning  raffle  with  little 
sideway  jumps  and  flirtings  and  great  full- 
extended  leaps.  Beside  the  team  Art  wrench- 
ed her  back  on  her  haunches,  and  the  very 


138    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

poise  of  his  head  hurt  Randal  in  its  dear  famil- 
iarity. 

"That  the  stump  you  started  last  week,  Ran- 
dal? Don't  wonder  my  father's  complaining 
about  the  work  here  if  this  is  the  way  you  go 
at  it !  Pick  up  that  jack  and  shove  it  in,  Buck ; 
get  those  brutes  going  and  look  sharp.  Get 
them  going,  I  tell  you." 

Randal's  bleeding  hands  shut  on  the  grip 
of  the  jack.  Mogger  handled  the  bar  in  a 
new  carefulness.  Up  in  the  closing  night 
sounded  the  chain-clank,  and  the  thunder  of 
beating  hoofs,  and  of  labouring  breaths.  And 
just  so  easily  might  three  horses  have  pulled 
the  earth  out  of  position  in  the  sky.  Art 
Scannell  came  down  from  his  mare. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  all  that  foolery? 
Get  a  straight  pull,  I  tell " 

Randal  climbed  up  to  explain  the  value  of 
the  side-pull. 

"It  gives  you  a  sixty-horse  power  'stead  of 
three " 

Art  Scannell  turned  on  his  heel.  Some- 
where in  his  sodden  brain  he  connected  Randal 
with  that  week  of  horror  in  the  whare  by  Lone- 
ly Hill,  and  he  did  not  love  him  therefor. 

"Take  that  rigging  off — now,  make  'em 
pull.  Make  them  pull,  will  you?  Here;  let 
me  get  at  them " 

He  came  with  a  stirrup-iron,  and  Buck 
blocked  him  desperately. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     139 

"Don't!  Don't  go  ter  touch  'em.  I'll  git 
every  sweatin'  drop  o'  pull  outer  them — I  kin 
do  it.  Oh,  darn  ye !  if  they  won't  do  it  fur  me, 
d'yer  think  as  you  kin " 

At  the  thud  of  the  iron  on  her  flank  the  off- 
sider  sprang,  and  staggered  back,  half -choked 
by  the  collar.  Randal  held  Buck  by  the  grip 
on  his  shoulder. 

"You'll  get  fired  if  you  hammer  your  boss," 
he  said  contemptuously.  "Let  him  kill  the 
brutes  if  he's  fool  enough.  They're  his  own." 

"They're  mine,"  sobbed  Buck.  "Mine! 
Aren't  I  looked  arter  them — oh!" 

It  was  the  cry  of  a  mother  for  her  first-born. 
But  the  writhing  shoulder  was  still  under  Ran- 
dal's hands. 

"Don't  look  then.  Oh,  by  Jingo,  he'll  muck 
things  directly.  Mogger " 

Mogger's  great  body  was  stiff  with  a  new 
sternness.  He  was  weighing  the  chances  of 
providing  for  his  relatives  on  any  new  billet 
that  might  fall  to  him  after  he  had  slain  Art 
Scannell  with  the  fist.  He  glanced  at  Randal. 
Randal's  dark  face  was  unmoving,  and  his 
eyes  told  nothing  at  all. 

"He  cud  do  it,"  said  Mogger  in  hisf  throat. 
"He  ain't  got  a  fambly  same  as  I  got.  He 
cud  do  it.  But  he  ain't  got  the  feelings  o'  a 
dead  black-beetle,  Randal  ain't." 

Some  passion  unknown  to  the  other  held 
Art.  He  beat  the  team  from  end  to  end  and 


140    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

back  again.  The  stump  rocked  forward  in 
obedience  to  the  maddened  force,  and  rocked 
back,  smashing  the  lever  and  Buck's  foot,  and 
bringing  the  black  colt  over  in  the  chains  with 
the  other  two  atop.  Buck  twisted  free  with  a 
cry  thin  with  pain,  and  mixed  himself  up  in  the 
tackle  and  the  great  heaving  bodies  and  the 
flurry  of  beating  hoofs. 

"Come  out  of  that,"  shouted  Art.  "Come 
out,  you !  I'll  get  the  brutes  up." 

"I  never,"  yelled  Buck  in  defiance.  "You 
leave  me  'lone.  G-get  out." 

His  white  desperate  face  showed  an  instant 
in  the  raw  flame  of  a  little  fire  near  by.  Then 
a  straining  head  with  wild  eyes  blocked  it  out. 
Mogger  hesitated.  He  had  all  the  courage 
of  an  ordinary  man;  but  none  could  tell  what 
might  be  in  the  half -seen  hell  of  iron  hoofs  and 
chains  if  Art  Scannell  struck  again.  And  Art 
Scannell  did  strike. 

Mogger  saw  Randal's  long-armed  swoop 
into  the  ruck.  He  saw  him  again  in  the  fire- 
light with  a  face  unknown,  and  Buck  carried 
by  the  nape  exactly  as  a  man  holds  a  rabbit. 
Then  he  saw  Art  Scannell  go  down  before  a 
straight  cut  between  the  eyebrows,  and  heard 
Randal's  voice,  sharp-edged. 

"Get  round  and  uncouple  the  off-sider  if 
you  can.  I'll  see  to  the  others." 

Swiftly,  cunningly,  Randal  cast  off  hooks, 
and  gentled  and  raised  the  struggling  bulks. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     141 

Buck  wept  over  the  bleeding  flanks,  and  for- 
got that  his  own  foot  swung  helpless.  Randal 
bound  it  with  all  the  rags  at  command,  and 
knotted  the  bandage  with  flax-strips.  But  his 
hands  and  his  heart  were  numbed  by  more  than 
the  chill  of  the  night,  and  the  crash  of  his 
knuckles  on  the  young  smooth  forehead  was 
loud  yet  in  his  ears. 

"Best  wallop  some  water  over  that  chap,  I 
reckon,"  remarked  Mogger,  making  investi- 
gation, and  he  brought  a  capful  from  the  first 
spring. 

Art  Scannell  had  been  half -killed  too  often 
to  submit  to  unconsciousness  long.  At  the 
third  repeat  he  sat  up,  came  to  his  feet,  and 
said  just  one  sentence: 

"You'll  come  up  to  the  house  for  your 
cheque  to-night,  Randal." 

Randal  said  nothing.  He  was  wondering 
what  comes  after  the  end  of  all  things,  and  he 
walked  out  into  the  dark  of  the  gully  as  a  man 
walks  in  an  unknown  land. 

"Does  he  mean  it?"  cried  Mogger,  as  the 
black  mare  tore  past  him  with  Art  Scannell 
kicking  for  the  stirrups.  "Does  he  mean  ter 
sack  yer  true,  Randal?  Why  didn't  yer  kill 
him,  then,  an*  hev  done  with  it?" 

Randal's  boots  brushed  the  little  flames  bat- 
tening on  the  dug-out  stumps,  and  each  red  eye 
brought  back  memory  of  that  which  he  would 
not  see  any  more.  The  boys  marvelled  that 


142    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal  took  always  the  end  bunk  in  the  whare, 
no  matter  how  many  lay  to  his  choice.  For 
the  end  bunk  headed  to  the  sou' west  and  the 
fierce  sleet  and  rain  that  sifted  through  un- 
f ound  cracks  and  thundered  on  the  wall.  And 
Randal  did  not  tell  that  through  one  crack 
whereof  he  alone  knew  showed  a  faint  fleck  of 
light  beyond  the  pine  avenue  which  had  its  be- 
ginning in  Effie  Scannell's  window.  On  that 
light  he  had  fed  love  and  desire  and  hope  for 
a  year  past.  But  he  would  not  do  it  any  more. 

At  the  gully-top  he  turned  and  looked  back. 
A  cold  wind  soughed  restlessly  in  the  dead 
branches  and  the  flax,  striking  the  flames  to 
passing  gleams,  and  spinning  little  whirls  of 
smoke  to  the  empty  sky.  Pale  afterglow  held 
up  the  dark  to  show  the  gathering  clouds  rush- 
ing down  wind,  and  Randal  dropped  his  head, 
tramping  on  unspeaking. 

Buck,  perched  on  the  black  colt,  talked  in 
undertone  to  his  team,  and  Mogger  whistled 
fitfully  until  the  fury  of  pelting  rain  caught 
them  in  the  length  of  the  sullen  miles.  Randal 
turned  up  his  collar  and  cared  not  though  the 
clay  underfoot  squelched  to  mud  and  to  run- 
ning water;  but  Mogger  spoke  unkindly  to 
the  black  thing  that  rose  up  at  the  wool-shed 
gate. 

"Git  out  of  the  tide-way,  yer  lumpin'  gal- 
loot!  Think  we  come  home  ter  stan'  here  an' 
watch  you?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     143 

"Boss  was  jes'  sendin'  out  a  search  party," 
said  Moody,  creaking  the  gates  back  on  the 
hinges.  "Young  Art's  bin  lettin'  some  queer 
kind  o'  yarns  fly " 

"Shouldn't  wonder.    Did  he  come  in,  then?" 

"Did  he  come  in?  Did  he  come  like  a  bloom- 
in'  torn  Ida  wi'  no  frills  lef  ter  him?  Yes ;  he's 
corned  in.  An*  what  guv  him  the  emu's  egg 
fresh  laid  atween  his  eyes?" 

"Randal,"  said  Buck,  stooping  his  head  as 
the  colt  passed  to  its  stall.  Moody  whistled  in 
three-tiered  admiration. 

"Must  'a'  put  some  body-weight  inter  that," 
he  remarked.  Then  the  flash  of  the  lantern 
across  the  faces  gave  him  sudden  wisdom. 
"Don't  git  tellin'  the  boss  too  much  about  it, 
Randal,  fur  yer  like  ter  be  tellin'  him  wi'  the 
aidge  o'  yer  fist  too,  be  the  look  o'  yer." 

Randal's  feet  crunched  the  gravel  on  the 
house-track,  and  Megger's  voice  rang  after 
him: 

"Randal — shall  I  come  along  an'  lend  a 
hand?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Randal,  speaking  for  the 
first  time.  And  the  dark  dripping  shadows 
of  the  pines  took  him. 

Though  a  strong  man  must  draw  on  him- 
self only;  now  and  again,  slicing  away  the 
Present  with  the  knife  of  the  Years  Between, 
comes  the  sharp  over-mastering  longing  to 
take  his  trouble  with  child-hands  back  to  his 


144     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

mother's  knee,  and  to  leave  it  there.  Randal 
was  weaker  than  he  knew  when  the  blink  from 
the  office-window  called  him  over  the  verandah 
to  the  door.  Art  flung  it  open  at  his  knock, 
and  Randal  noticed,  with  a  workman's  merci- 
less pride,  that  both  eyes  were  swelling  under 
the  bandage. 

Scannell  looked  up  from  his  desk,  and  Ran- 
dal straightened,  meeting  the  look  defiantly. 
But  neither  man  spoke.  From  the  chair 
where  he  lay  with  both  legs  flung  over  the  arm, 
Art  Scannell  was  laughing. 

"Go  on,  pater.  Pitch  it  straight — then  I 
will " 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Scannell,  unmov- 
ing,  and  his  eyes  ran,  keen-searching,  over  the 
length  of  the  man  before  him. 

Randal's  coat  and  shirt  were  open  in  the 
cold  night,  and  rain  had  beat  the  dust  of  them 
to  mud.  His  dark  hair  was  rough  on  the 
tanned  forehead,  and  sweat  and  earth  grimed 
each  hard  line  that  coarse  living  and  soul-suf- 
fering had  scored  on  the  flesh.  But,  apart  from 
the  knotted  hands  drawn  with  corns,  apart 
from  the  shoulder-stoop  of  the  yoke-bound, 
and  the  restless-eyed  sullenness  that  will  take 
neither  pity  nor  help,  was  the  race-mark  that 
no  man  may  lose.  Scannell  felt  for  it,  saying : 

"You  are  not  a  liar,  I  think,  Randal?" 

"I  never  heard  a  man  call  me  so,"  said  Ran- 
dal, suggestively,  and  his  hands  shut  up. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    145 

"Then,"  said  Scannell  slowly,  "I  ask  you — 
what  is  my  daughter  to  you?" 

All  the  blood  in  Randal's  body  was  leaping 
in  his  throat.  That  was  surely  why  his  head 
felt  so  very  cold,  and  why  his  hand  was  numb 
and  dead  on  the  unseen  thing  that  he  was  grip- 
ping. Somewhere  Art  Scannell  was  laughing; 
and,  without  doubt,  it  was  the  laugh  of  a  demon 
sent  straight  from  the  Pit. 

"You've  taken  him  on  the  hop,  pater,  and 
he  hasn't  got  his  lies  ready.  Let  me  wake  him 
up.  See  here,  you  Randal;  half  the  station's 
betting  it's  Kiliat,  and  the  other  half's  betting 
it's  you.  The  odds  are  on  Kiliat  down  on  the 
township,  and  I'm  sweet  on  him  myself.  But 
if  Effie's  sweet  on  you " 

Scannell's  voice  broke  the  laugh,  and  Ran- 
dal raised  his  head  to  meet  it. 

"Will  you  answer  me?  What  is  my  daugh- 
ter— my  daughter — to  you?" 

It  did  not  need  the  emphasis  that  cut  like  a 
whip-lash  over  the  face. 

"She  is  more  to  me  than  I  will  tell  you," 
said  Randal,  deliberately.  "And  I  am  to  her 
— just  as  any  other  station-hand  might  be." 

"That's  a  lie,  anyway,"  cried  Art,  beating 
his  pipe-bowl  on  his  knee.  "Effie  is  a  little 
fool,  and  she's  all  school-girly  sentiment  yet. 
And  you've  taken  advantage  of  it.  Look  at 
him,  pater.  Ask  him  if  he  ever  kissed  her!" 

"Arthur "    Then  Scannell's  eye  caught 


146     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal's,  and  he  stood  up ;  and  the  silence  be- 
tween the  two  men  was  tense  and  dangerous 
as  a  drawn  wire-rope. 

"Well?"  said  Scannell  at  last. 

Randal  would  not  lie  for  himself. 

"I  have  kissed  her — against  her  will." 

"By  Jove,  but  we'll  have  to  have  her  in  to 
settle  that,"  cried  Art,  springing  up. 

Randal's  back  was  to  the  shut  door,  and  his 
drawn  face  flamed. 

"Haven't  you  insulted  your  sister  enough 
already,  you  young  brute?"  he  said. 

Scannell  looked  on  the  two,  and  the  man  in 
him  felt  sudden  strong  pity  for  the  other  man. 

"Go  back  to  your  seat,  Arthur,"  he  said. 
"You  at  least  do  not  know  what  is  due  to  your 
sister.  Randal,  you  leave  Mains  to-night,  and 
the  district  to-morrow.  I  think  I  can  expect 
so  much  of  you.  You  were  a  gentleman  once." 

"Once,"  said  Randal,  and  laughed.  "That's 
a  thing  a  man  can't  get  back,  you  know." 

"It  depends  on  the  man.  You  can  prove  the 
contrary  now." 

Randal  knew  his  limitations.  He  had  beaten 
them  out  through  too  many  nights  and  days. 

"I  can't,"  he  said. 

"That  means ?" 

"It  means  that  I  will  not  leave  the  district," 
said  Randal. 

Scannell  sat  down  and  wrote  a  cheque  with 
hands  that  shook.  He  ripped  out  the  leaf,  and 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     147 

tossed  it  across  the  table.  "If  I  see  you  on 
Mains  again  I'll  set  the  dogs  on  you,"  he  said. 
"You  may  go." 

Art  pushed  back  the  bandage  as  Randal 
passed  to  the  outer  door. 

"Think  I've  got  good  interest  for  this,  Ran- 
dal," he  cried.  "Randal — you've  forgotten 
your  cheque." 

But  only  a  spatter  of  wet  wind  and  torn 
leaves  licked  over  the  verandah  in  answer. 

"And  that's  done  with,"  said  Art  Scannell 
then.  "Ship  Effie  down  to  town  for  a  month 
or  two,  pater,  and  give  her  plenty  of  rope,  and 
I'll  guarantee  Randal  will  find  his  hash  set- 
tled for  keeps." 

"You  will  hold  your  tongue  about  this  mat- 
ter, Arthur,"  said  Scannell,  looking  straightly 
at  his  son. 

Art  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"My  dear  pater,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "don't 
you  fret.  I  know  a  thing  or  two." 


CHAPTER  X 

"SHE  wants  me  to  give  it  up,"  said  Maiden. 

In  a  little  back  bedroom  at  Blake's,  Suse 
had  been  whispering  to  the  other  girl  of  Danny, 
and  showing,  half -shyly,  the  trousseau  made 
with  such  anxious  labour.  She  smoothed  a 
white  frill  with  rough  fingers,  speaking 
absently. 

"Why,  dear?" 

"Well — she  says — do  you  think  the  bonnet's 
so  awful  unbecoming,  Suse?" 

Suse  shut  a  little  smile  into  the  drawer  with 
the  white  frill. 

"Trust  a  mother  ter  find  out  jest  where  ter 
tackle  a  gel,"  she  murmured.  Then  she  looked 
over  at  Maiden's  face  closed  in  the  curve  of 
her  hands  as  a  flower  is  closed  in  its  sheath. 

"Didn't  nobuddy  ever  tell  yer  as  more  than 
the  Lassie  bonnet  weren't  becoming  ter  yer, 
Maiden?" 

"Only  Steve  Derral — an'  he  don't  count." 

"Don't  he?     Since  when?" 

"Since  always,"  said  Maiden,  untruthfully. 

"I  ain't  seen  him  this  month  past.  He's  up 
musterin'  somewheres  out  back,  Danny  says." 

148 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    149 

"Oh!" 

"I  ain't  seed  him  since  he  an'  Lou  had  that 
turn-up  what  near  laid  'em  both  out.  It  was 
a  awful  fight,  Danny  said!"  Suse  came  to 
Maiden's  side;  her  hands  on  her  broad  hips, 
her  plain  kindly  face  something  envious. 
"Chaps  say  as  they  fought  about  you,  Maid- 
en," she  said. 

Maiden's  head  went  up,  and  the  scarlet 
flamed  to  her  ear-tips. 

"What  give  him  the  right  to  fight  'bout  me, 
I'd  like  ter  know!" 

"Which  is  he?" 

Maiden  wheeled  to  the  window,  confused. 
Then  the  red  ran  to  her  forehead,  and  Suse  be- 
hind her  grunted  in  sudden  disapproving. 
For  Lou  passed  on  his  way  to  the  ranges 
where  the  mustering  had  cut  half  the  Mains 
boys  from  their  kind  for  a  full  fortnight. 
He  pulled  under  the  window  with  a  quick 
swerve. 

"Good-bye  for  five  days,  Maiden,"  he  called; 
then  swayed  to  the  mare's  impatient  bound, 
and  tore  up  the  street,  leaving  the  swift  flash 
of  laughing  eyes  and  bared  fair  head,  and  a 
sudden  silence  to  the  two  in  the  room. 

"I'd  sooner  hev  Steve  than  Lou  Birot,"  said 
Suse,  with  meaning. 

"You  don't  want  either,  do  you?  You've 
got  Danny." 

Suse  bit  her  lip.    Then  she  tried  again. 


150    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"I'd  sooner  plough  my  furror  wi'  Steve's 
steady  old  team  than  wi'  the  other." 

"I'm  not  wantin'  ter  plough  any  furrows," 
said  Maiden,  indifferently. 

Suse  looked  on  womanhood  as  she  saw  it  in 
the  hard  patient,  loving  lives  about  her. 

"Reckon  as  we've  all  got  some  furrors, 
dear.  But  you  kin  take  yer  chance  whether 
yer'll  have  a  man  as'll  plough  it  along  the 
ground  wi'  yer  fur  yer  bread  an'  meat,  or  one 
as'll " 

"What?" 

"One  as'll  plough  it  there,  Maiden." 

The  rough  finger  just  touched  the  smooth 
girl-forehead,  and  Maiden  straightened,  flush- 
ing. 

"Danny  can't  plough  a  furrow  anywhere.  I 
saw  him  turning  down  the  hem  of  a  paddock 
the  other  day,  and  he  made  an  awful  mess  of 
it.  He  said  so  himself.  Is  that  Randal  goin' 
down  the  street?" 

"Yes.  Come  in  an  hour  ago  lookin'  like  he'd 
bin  shelterin'  from  the  wet  under  a  wire-fence. 
Father  says  he's  bin  shot  out  o'  Mains." 

"He's  got  the  bullet  lef '  in  somewheres," 
said  Maiden,  in  pity.  "They  do  say  as  he  cares 
fur  Miss  Effie,  Suse." 

"I  know.  But  he  won't  find  her  up  at  the 
Lion — if  that's  where  he's  goin'." 

Randal  was  going  to  the  Lion.  He  heard 
the  high  snarl  of  the  jet  before  he  breasted 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     151 

the  hill,  and  he  heard  the  clang  of  Ormond's 
hammer.  For  Ormond  was  making  ripples  for 
the  boxes.  By  his  foot  the  steady  snore  of  the 
hose  drove  the  Pelton  wheel,  and  the  blast  of 
the  forge  made  heat-quivers  in  the  air.  He  had 
all  a  strong  man's  content  in  work  dear  to  him, 
and  he  wrought  the  red  iron  with  the  undis- 
tressed  power  of  one  who  has  played  no  games 
with  constitution  or  with  conscience.  The 
grate  of  a  foot  on  the  shingle  caught  his  ear. 
Then  he  dropped  the  hammer  and  came  for- 
ward, rubbing  his  forearm  across  his  wet  fore- 
head. 

Randal  put  aside  the  frank  welcome  curtly. 

"I've  come  to  ask  you  more  than  you'll  like 
to  give.  Miss  Scannell  is  often  up  here,  isn't 
she?  Do  you  know  when  she  is  coming 
again?" 

Ormond  stopped  the  hose,  and  the  Pelton 
wheel  dribbled  to  silence.  He  looked  at  Ran- 
dal, remembering  Father  Denis'  words:  "If 
ever  Randal  comes  to  you  for  help,  give  it.  He 
will  not  be  coming  to  many." 

"Miss  Scannell  and  Kiliat  are  riding  up  here 
this  afternoon,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  see  her — alone,"  said  Randal. 
"I  want  you  to  arrange  for  me  to  see  her  alone, 
to-day."' 

Ormond  pushed  back  his  cap  and  his  voice 
was  suddenly  stern. 

"You  must  tell  me  more  than  that.    Why 


152    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  devil  should  I  arrange  anything  of  that 
sort?" 

"Because — I  will  see  her — somewhere  and 
somehow.  I  will  see  her  alone.  Scannell 
has  sacked  me  from  Mains;  but  I'll  go 
back — byjiight  if  they  kick  me  out  by  day 
— if  you  won't  give  me  the  chance  here. 
You  had  better  give  me  the  chance,  Ormond, 
or — I  may  do  more  harm  than  I  have  done 
already." 

The  steady  grey  eyes  flashed  on  Randal's 
face;  then  dropped.  It  is  not  right  that  one 
man  should  look  on  another  man's  heart  when 
desperate  pain  has  stripped  it  naked.  Ormond 
kicked  out  a  broken  bolt  lying  in  the  dried 
wash ;  kicked  it  again,  and  it  dropped  the  fifty 
feet  into  the  creek-bed  where  a  dottrell  was 
piping  across  the  sand-pit  to  her  frightened 
youngsters. 

"Does  Miss  Scannell  wish  to  see  you?"  he 
asked  at  length. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Then  you  want  me  to  do  this  against  Scan- 
nell's  express  desire,  and  possibly  against  hers 
too?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  asking  a  great  deal." 

"Yes." 

Ormond  hesitated.  He  acknowledged  the 
pride  that  cut  all  explanations;  and,  very  cer- 
tainly, pity  hurt  him  for  the  man  who  could 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    153 

never  speak  with  such  as  Effie  Scannell  before 
other  men. 

"Poor  devil!"  he  said  in  his  throat.  Then  he 
put  his  finger  on  the  one  pulse  which  he  could 
trust  to  beat  true  in  Randal. 

"Can  you  shake  on  it  ?  That's  all  right,  then. 
You  won't  go  back  on  that,  Randal.  I'll  man- 
age it  somehow." 

"Thanks,"  said  Randal  only. 

He  turned  and  tramped  over  the  little  dip 
to  the  Packer's  claim.  From  the  tussock  top 
of  it  he  could  see  the  first  wind  in  the  bridle- 
track  beyond  the  dredges.  The  Packer,  wad- 
ing up  to  his  middle  in  wash,  was  gay  as  a 
boy  with  a  holiday  nearing. 

"Murray's  away  beyond  the  All  Alone  after 
Jule  Harrison,"  he  said,  climbing  into  the  tip- 
head;  "so  I'm  goin'  ter  take  ter-morrer  an'  all 
the  rest  I  kin  get  before  he  comes  back.  Onst 
in  five  months  I  Time  was  when  I  cud  stan'  it 
ev'ry  Sat'day.  But  it  ain't  a  gift  wi'  me  like 
it  was  wi'  Jos  Greer.  A  good  drunk  every  five 
months  is  all  as  I  kin  manage  now — an*  that 
with  Blake's  stuff,  too.  Phelan's  would  burn 
the  copper-bottom  outer  a  dredge-biler  in 
twict." 

He  crawled  in  under  the  fall,  and  Randal 
sat  in  the  manuka,  breaking  the  white  petals 
away  from  the  brown  hearts,  and  staring  down 
into  the  next  gully  where  Roddy  Duncan  and 
Fysh  were  having  a  washing-day.  Every 


154    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

nerve  in  him  listened  for  the  far  clack  of  hoofs 
that  would  mean  Erne  Scannell  and  Kiliat  rid- 
ing up  the  Lion. 

"Fellers  say  why  don't  I  work  more'n  three 
days  a  week,"  said  the  Packer,  coming  into 
daylight  again  with  the  water  shining  on  his 
tattered  oilskins.  "I  says  what's  the  sense  o' 
it  when  I  can't  hev  a  drunk  more'n  onst  in  five 
months?  What'd  I  want  wi'  the  money?  What 
do  any  single  man  want  wi'  money  'cept  ter 
git  drunk  on  it?" 

Randal  looked  down  on  the  lean  old  man 
bent  double  in  the  narrow  race. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you're  right, 
Packer." 

Then  he  sprang  up,  and  went  back  to  Or- 
mond  hastily.  For,  far  down  on  the  level  of 
the  Creek,  two  horses  swerved  into  the  bridle- 
track  as  one. 

It  was  a  quarter-hour  later  when  Effie  Scan- 
nell came  to  Ormond's  little  hut  behind  the 
power-house ;  pushing  the  door  wide,  and  grop- 
ing in  the  gloom  for  photographs  that  Or- 
mond  had  left  on  the  table.  Randal  spoke 
across  it  gently,  that  he  might  not  frighten  her ; 
and  the  blood  left  his  heart  to  see  the  light  flash 
on  her  face. 

"Guy — dearest!  Oh,  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
so  long!  Guy — what ?" 

Randal  kept  the  table  between  them. 

"I  came  here  to  beg  your  pardon.     But  I 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    155 

think  I  won't.  You  would  never  understand 
that  you  couldn't  give  it,  Effie." 

"Why  couldn't  I  ?  Guy,  you  always  call  me 
a  child ;  but — but  perhaps  I  could  understand, 
dear.  What  have  you  done,  Guy?" 

"Oh,  a  very  little  thing,"  said  Randal,  rough- 
ly. "I  have  made  you  the  common  talk  of  the 
district,  Effie.  That  is  all.  You— my  little 
white  flower!  Do  you  know  what  men  will 
say  of  me  and  of  you,  Effie,  because  we  love 
each  other?" 

"No,"  she  said,  with  wide  eyes. 

"No.  Of  course  not."  His  voice  broke. 
"But  I  know,  dear.  I  came  here  with 
a  bad  name,  Effie,  and  I  never  troubled 
to  deny  it.  Well — there  was  some  truth  in 
it.  But  since  I  have  known  you — Effie, 
Effie,  if  you  loved  me  as  I  love  you,  you 
could  make  of  me  what  you  liked.  I'd  take 
you  away " 

She  shrank  from  the  passion  of  face  and 
voice,  and  he  saw  it.' 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  I'm  sorry.  But  it  is 
all  ended  now,  Effie.  Your  father  has  sacked 
me.  He  knows." 

"Guy!  Guy!  You're  not  going  away?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Randal,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"Then  it  isn't  ended!  It  need  never  be  end- 
ed. There  are  still  the  hills  and  the  dear  old 
lonely  gullies  for  us.  Guy ." 


156    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal  did  not  come  near.  He  was  holding 
the  bond  given  to  Ormond. 

"It  is  ended,  I  think.  People  speak  of  Kiliat, 
Effie.  Will  you  tell  me  if  there  is  any  truth 
in  what  they  say?" 

Effie  spread  her  little  bare  hands  on  Or- 
mond's  old  table-cloth  with  the  tobacco-burns 
in  it. 

"When  you  see  a  ring  there  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  ask  me  of  Mr.  Kiliat,"  she  said, 
with  a  quaint  dignity.  "Your  letter  made  me 
very  angry,  Guy.  I  have  never  doubted  you." 

Randal  looked  at  her  steadily — at  the  white 
fur  round  throat  and  wrists;  at  the  delicate 
flushed  face  with  the  wide  sweet  eyes;  at  the 
dainty  figure  and  hands.  His  skin  burnt  sud- 
denly. 

"The  cases  are  hardly  parallel,"  he  said, 
dryly. 

"Oh,  Guy,  Guy!  I  wish  I  could  understand 
you!  You  say  you  love  me,  and  when  we're 
together  you  don't  seem  to  like  it  a  little  bit, 
you  dear  old  silly  boy!  I  never  bother  about 
the  future  a  scrap,  Guy.  It  mightn't  ever 
come,  you  know.  And  when  we're  together 
it's  just  the  now,  dear " 

"Effie— don't " 

The  thrown-back  face  was  laughing  between 
the  out-held  curved  arms. 

"Guy,  dear  Guy — it's  just  the  now  that 
matters,  isn't  it?" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    157 

And  then  Randal  forgot  the  pledge  that  he 
had  given  to  Ormond  with  his  hand-grip. 

It  was  dusk  when  Ormond  came  into  the 
hut.  Randal  lay  on  the  bunk  with  his  face  on 
his  arms;  but  the  tension  of  his  body  showed 
no  rest.  He  rose  as  Ormond  struck  a  light. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  vaguely.  "I've  made  my- 
self pretty  much  at  home,  haven't  I?  Good- 
night." 

Ormond's  hand  was  on  the  latch  first. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Down  to  the  township — to  get  drunk,  I 
think.  Phelan's  is  the  best  place,  if  you'd  like 
to  know.  Kerosene  and  painkiller.  But  it 
knocks  the  senses  out  of  you  quicker  than  any- 
thing else." 

"You'll  have  tea  with  me  first,"  said  Or- 
mond, unmoving. 

"No — let  me  go,  Ormond." 

"I  am  not  going  to  ask  questions.  But  you 
are  safer  here  than  in  Phelan's  bar  to-night, 
Randal." 

"I  have  broken  my  word  to  you,"  said  Ran- 
dal. 

The  steady  grey  eyes  met  his  straightly. 
Then  Ormond  came  over  with  his  hand  out. 

"I  had  no  business  to  ask  it,  I  think.  Will 
you  shake  again,  Randal?  And  now  we'll  have 
some  tea." 


CHAPTER  XI 

MAINS  was  mustering  for  shearing,  and  only 
the  man  who  has  tramped  a  month  through  on 
a  hundred-thousand-acre  hill-run  begins  to  un- 
derstand what  that  means.  And  his  explana- 
tions, though  entirely  vivid,  are  not  always 
clear  to  the  lay  mind.  It  was  Ted  Douglas 
alone  who  knew  absolutely  the  value  of  the 
work  done  and  to  do,  and  who  drove  the  boys 
through  the  days  on  a  straight  bit,  with  a  spe- 
cial wire-whip  for  the  man  who  balked. 

Through  cold  days  and  hot  muggy  days,  and 
days  of  sudden  tempers  of  sleet  on  the  bare 
tops,  and  days  of  close-wrapping  fog  that 
made  distance  very  blind  and  foothold  un- 
stable, and  that  brought  clinging  wet  to  soak 
each  man  to  the  chilled  skin.  And  by  the  long 
hours  that  began  and  ended  under  the  stars 
that  stern  mother  that  bred  them  tested  and 
tortured  and  tempted  them,  and  the  slow 
brown  mobs  drew  in  to  the  low  country  and 
the  gaping  yards  on  the  homestead  block. 

Moody  said  openly  that  Ted  Douglas  was 
a  devil  this  muster.  For  he  had  no  mercy 
where  country  was  bad  and  sheep  were  slug- 

158 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     159 

gish  and  a  hot  wind  blasted  the  earth.  Scott 
agreed,  with  the  additional  assertion  that  he 
was  sick  of  graft  and  meant  to  take  it  easy 
thereafter.  And  it  was  on  the  following  morn- 
ing that  Ted's  hand  fell  heavier  yet.  This 
was  when  the  cut  tussock,  bared  to  the  star- 
light by  the  drawn  tents,  was  yet  warm  with 
the  weight  of  their  bodies,  and  when  the  cook- 
ing-fire held  flame  to  the  chill  that  goes  before 
dawn.  Round  the  fire  the  boys  gathered,  suck- 
ing life  into  their  pipes,  and  Ted  Douglas  came 
up  with  the  roster. 

"We're  takin'  the  Brothers  country  to-day," 
he  said,  "and  out  to  the  head  of  the  Dome.  It'll 
be  a  brutal  long  day,  an'  you  chaps'll  have  to 
put  your  backs  into  it.  We  got  to  get  back  to 
the  station  Friday,  an'  it'll  take  us  all  we  know 
to  do  it." 

The  shearers  were  booked  for  Mains  in  the 
week  following,  and  all  the  draughting  was  yet 
to  do.  The  boys  knew  it.  But  a  sudden  ten- 
sion ran  into  the  group  round  the  fire,  and  talk 
and  laughter  died  on  their  mouths.  The  Broth- 
ers country  made  the  cruellest  muster  on 
Mains.  It  was  slippery  tussock  and  running 
shingle  and  rotten  slag  where  no  sane  goat 
would  climb.  But  the  Mains  sheep  loved  it 
with  all  their  demon  souls,  and  the  Mains  boys 
drew  many  thousands  from  it;  climbing,  hour 
after  hour,  hand  over  hand,  through  places 
where  no  dog  would  follow. 


160    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"It's  sinful  country,"  said  Conlon  at  length. 
"Better  break  it  into  two  days,  Ted.  We  can't 
do  more  than  we  can,  you  know." 

"Bein'  that  near  the  sky  it  orter  hev  larned 
better,"  added  Ike.  "But  it  seemin'ly  ain't. 
You'll  hev  ter  give  us  two  days  fur  the  Broth- 
ers, Ted." 

Ted  Douglas'  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  and 
his  quiet  eyes  sifting  round  the  group. 

"We're  takin'  the  Brothers  an'  the  Dome 
to-day,"  he  said.  "Anybody  got  anythin'  more 
to  say?" 

A  month's  hill-mustering  will  weed  weak- 
lings out  of  any  camp  under  heaven.  In- 
dubitably, the  boys  were  toughened,  lung, 
sinew,  and  muscle,  to  any  strain  that  might 
fall.  But  they  were  growing  stale,  and  more 
than  one  was  foot-sore,  and  the  flame  of  mutiny 
was  just  a  new-born  flicker  in  the  camp. 

Three  yards  off  Buck  was  strapping  the  last 
pack,  and  casting  the  great  saddles  athwart 
the  horses  with  a  jangle  of  chains.  Mogger 
muttered  underbreath,  and  through  the  smoke 
of  his  half -lit  pipe  Lou  Birot  was  watching 
Ted  Douglas. 

"We  can't  do  it  in  a  day,"  said  Scott,  sulk- 

ay- 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  won't?" 
Scott  looked  round  for  support.    He  made 
no  answer. 

"Come  on,"  said  Ted,  kindly.     "Don't  be 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    161 

shy.  I  got  time  to  thump  some  sense  into  you 
'fore  we  make  a  start.  What  way  did  they 
gene'ly  get  you  goin'  in  the  war,  Scott?  Or 
was  you  runnin'  down  to  Capetown  all  the 
time?" 

Somebody  sniggered.  Then  Steve  laughed, 
and  the  queer  eager  look  went  out  of  Lou's 
eyes. 

"Arrah!  what's  the  matter  wid  it,  then?" 
cried  Tod,  jerking  a  match  up  his  trouser-leg. 
"Jabberin'  here  won't  mend  the  hours  for  us. 
An'  sure  if  the  day's  long  we'll  git  home  the 
sooner.  An'  where  will  ye  be  puttin'  me  at  all, 
Ted,  me  boyo?" 

Ted  Douglas  carried  the  whole  map  of 
Mains  in  his  head,  and  no  man  need  get  his 
sheep  into  an  impassable  pocket  or  be  blocked 
by  a  ten-foot  gut  if  he  laid  his  course  by  Ted's 
words.  He  struck  into  the  half -defiant  silence 
with  the  decision  of  one  who  understands  and 
handles  men  in  all  moods;  gave  place  and  po- 
sition to  each,  ordered  a  squad  out  to  load  the 
packs  on  the  saddles,  and  thereafter  swept 
them  over  the  raupo-rimmed  creek  with  their 
lunches  rammed  in  their  side-pockets,  and  a 
half-hundred  dogs  of  sorts  at  their  heels. 

Right,  left,  and  straight  forward,  the  rough 
spurs  of  the  Brothers  received  them,  and  baf- 
fled them  as  they  set  their  faces  ever  to  the 
North  and  to  the  long  harsh  hours  that  waited. 
Down  on  the  dead  camp  Buck  took  a  last  hole 


162    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

in  a  pack-strap,  clambered  into  his  saddle,  and 
chirruped  an  order  to  the  unreined  pack-horses. 
They  answered  with  the  quick  lift  of  feet  to 
a  trot,  and  passed  down  the  creek-bed,  to  take, 
by  low  and  winding  ways,  the  desolate  track  to 
the  Dome  where  it  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  world 
with  a  scarlet  wreath  of  sun-rays  over  its 
snow. 

It  is  not  every  man  who  dares  be  alone  with 
Nature.  For  Nature  is  God,  and  man,  very 
often,  is  of  himself  and  the  devil.  Lou  Birot 
knew  this  with  the  absolute  certainty  of  a  man 
who  discovers  a  thing  first-hand;  and  because 
he  knew  it  he  loathed  the  great  merciless 
silences,  and  the  dark  secret  gullies,  and  the 
terrible  purity  of  the  uplifted  snow-mountains 
that  no  touch  of  man  could  subdue  nor  smirch. 

The  smell  of  heat  was  in  the  air  before  dawn. 
The  burden  of  it  was  on  the  shelterless  hills 
ere  ever  the  fog  was  torn  from  the  crests. 
Across  the  broken  miles  of  shingle-tops  it  made 
mirage  of  cabbage-tree  and  swaying  toi-toi  be- 
side still  water ;  and  more  than  one  man  halted 
with  his  stick  on  the  grating  shingle  to  curse 
it,  and  to  curse  the  sheep  pelting  by  above  him, 
and  to  trudge  steadily  on  with  lips  that  cracked 
when  he  whistled  his  dogs. 

To  the  lay  understanding  a  man's  conscience 
is  his  only  goal  on  the  hills.  The  expert  knows 
that  he  no  more  dare  burk  his  fair  labour  there 
than  in  the  branding-yards  with  the  full  sta- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     163 

tion  at  gaze.  But  thrice  was  Lou  tempted 
far  up  on  the  naked  shoulder  of  the  Brothers. 
For  the  sun  burnt  on  the  black  rotten  rocks 
and  the  stiff  tufts  of  heather  and  the  savage 
brown  thistle  between;  and  the  sparkle  of  a 
creek  in  cool  fern,  seven  miles  off  as  the  foot 
must  go,  was  a  torment  that  dried  his  tongue  in 
his  mouth.  His  flask  was  empty  long  since. 
But  he  up-ended  it  again  before  putting  it 
away  with  his  untasted  lunch.  Then  he 
dropped  under  shelter  of  a  bull-nosed  scarp, 
and  lay  there. 

"And  if  the  sheep  get  back  on  me  I  won't 
be  the  only  one  who  mucks  things  this  day," 
he  said. 

Below  and  before  him  his  dogs  ranged  wide, 
harrying  little  mobs  that  ran  together  and 
trickled  forward  like  spilt  coffee  from  a  cup. 
Very  far  down  a  trained  eye  might  pick  up  oc- 
casional flickers  of  life  on  the  heat-run  flanges. 
There  lay  Conlon's  beat  where  he  kept  touch 
with  the  man  below,  even  as,  on  terrace  and 
jagged  terrace  above,  Mogger  and  nine  more 
held  the  linked  chain  unbroken  until  it  touched 
down  to  the  bush-gully  on  the  farther  side. 
The  heat  turned  Lou's  bones  to  water;  and  all 
the  wonder  of  heliotrope  and  violent  purple  in 
the  gullies,  and  saffron  on  the  spurs,  and  flash- 
ing diamond  where  distant  waterfalls  leapt  in 
fern,  were  things  of  emptiness  and  derision. 
He  lay  on  his  face  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  cared 


164     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

not  for  the  strenuous  life  beating  above  and 
below. 

Over  the  near  vivid  crests  cutting  the  sky- 
line, quick  black  clouds  came  reefing  up.  Sun- 
light struck  them  to  the  glistening  green  of  a 
starling's  wing.  Into  the  wide-spaced  silence 
volleyed  the  sudden  roar  of  musketry;  snatch- 
ing echoes  from  the  splintered  rocks;  tossed 
back  and  out  again  by  the  gullies,  and  live- 
leaping  down  the  length  of  the  ranges  with  a 
broken  handful  of  lightning  to  chase  it.  Lou 
came  to  his  feet  with  quick  hands  seeking  the 
rifle-butt,  and  lust  red  in  his  eyes.  No  man 
on  Mains  knew  ever  that  Lou  had  ridden  the 
Boer  war  through,  there  earning  praise  and 
secret  shame  and  open  disgrace.  No  man 
knew  that,  because  each  soul  must  love  some- 
thing or  it  will  die — .Lou  loved,  with  all  the 
wild  godless  heart  of  him,  the  ring  of  the  rifle 
and  the  gobble  of  the  field-guns  growing  near- 
er. He  was  shouting  straight-flung  command 
as  in  years  past,  when  the  next  thunder-rattle 
brought  explanation  and  black  disgust.  Then 
a  quick  snicker  of  lightning  laughed  with  him. 

"Does  Ted  think  he  will  muster  the  Broth- 
ers to-day?"  he  said. 

Strung  across  the  great  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  Brothers  the  boys  saw  the  storm  coming, 
and  each  and  each,  after  their  own  kind,  they 
denounced  it,  and  hesitated,  or  took  action 
promptly.  For  there  is  no  man  in  the  Back- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     165 

country  who  does  not  know  what  may  be  when 
a  water-spout  bursts  on  a  range-top,  and,  with- 
out any  possible  doubt,  there  was  water  in  these 
black  low-bellied  clouds.  Ted  Douglas  was 
on  the  high  shingle  faces,  where  a  man  carries 
a  stick  and  places  his  feet  with  cunning.  Here 
were  a  score  little  flowering  heaths  to  mark 
danger,  for  the  hillsman  knows  that  they  grow 
only  on  running  shingle.  Below,  tussock  lived 
on  two  inches  of  earth.  Below  that  sprang 
rocks  that  sank  to  tussock  and  shingle  again. 
But  the  Mains  sheep  grew  fat  on  it,  and  the 
merciless  heat  had  wearied  them;  so  that  they 
strung  along  the  slim  tracks  in  a  slowness  that 
no  dog  could  hasten.  One  moment  Ted  stood 
drawing  sharp  breath. 

"If  any  of  them  boys  goes  back  on  me 
Mains'll  limp  nex'  lambin*,"  he  said.  Then  his 
up-flung  arm  sent  his  dogs  forward  to  nose  out 
stragglers  from  behind  rocking  boulders. 

A  tense  hum  sounded  over  the  tops,  as 
though  someone  plucked  the  strings  of  a  bass- 
viol.  A  sudden  jolt  of  thunder  came  sheer 
underfoot  before  the  whistle  of  the  lightning 
was  past.  Then,  deliberate  and  separate,  and 
so  solid  that  Ted  looked  to  see  them  roll  down 
hill,  followed  the  rain-drops. 

On  the  hog-backed  top  beyond  all  men  Tod 
quailed  for  an  instant  and  covered  his  eyes. 
For  the  thunder  walked  the  ranges  with  shak- 
ing feet,  and  each  flash  of  the  lightning  sang 


166     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

like  a  sword-cut  on  the  air.  All  the  great 
tops  were  sinking,  crumbling  under  the  black- 
ness of  cloud ;  and  to  the  men  on  the  Brothers 
came  a  sudden  giddiness  and  horror,  as  though 
this  sucking  sea  would  draw  them  under  also 
for  Eternity. 

"Bedad,"  said  Tod,  pulling  up  his  waist- 
strap,  "it's  mesilf  wud  be  sooner  befure  the 
whare  foire  than  aitin'  me  meat  wid  this  knife 
an  fork.  An'  what  will  come  of  us  at  all  when 
the  rain  gits  in  behint  of  the  shingle?" 

There  was  no  man  on  the  Brothers  was  not 
thinking  of  this.  There  was  no  man  was  not 
hurrying  his  sheep  by  sharp  command  to  his 
dogs,  and  cast  stones,  and  quick-stumbling  feet 
on  the  rough  underway.  The  ridges  lay  across 
the  Brothers  like  the  bones  of  a  cat's  tail,  and 
very  swiftly  the  gutters  filled  with  dribbling 
streams  that  baulked  and  held  the  sheep.  The 
straining  dogs  hounded  them  over,  and  down 
the  slopes,  and  forward,  with  the  storm  roaring 
on  their  quarter  and  the  thunder  charging 
through  the  wild  bluffs  and  gullies  as  mobs  of 
wild  brumbies  charge  headlong.  On  the  far 
side  one  of  Steve's  worn  boots  gave  from  the 
sole.  He  had  brought  two  new  pairs  for  this 
muster ;  but  he  was  a  heavy  man,  and  shingle  is 
more  strong  than  calf -hide.  Thereafter  he 
blundered  on  bare-foot,  and  watching,  with  the 
keen-trained  sight  that  is  the  property  of  every 
musterer,  for  the  weak-hearted  falter  that 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     167 

would  bring  him  down  through  flint  and 
thistles  to  slay  Scott. 

The  rain  pelted  to  hail  that  came  after  the 
manner  of  shingle  poured  from  a  sack.  Ted 
Douglas  stopped  one  instant;  blind,  and  sick, 
and  with  a  lump  in  his  throat  that  meant  tears 
in  a  woman.  Well  he  knew  the  men  who  would 
flinch  before  this,  and  before  the  certain  dan- 
ger that  gathered.  Every  fibre  in  him  ached  for 
power  to  take  the  slack  of  that  unseen  chain 
in  his  hands,  and  to  wrench  it  tight,  and  to 
sweep  it  forward  by  weight  of  his  own  savage 
strength  for  the  good  of  Mains. 

"I  must  trust  'em.  But  the  Lord  only  knows 
if  I  can  trust  'em.  Scott '11  burk  if  he  thinks 
the  faces  are  goin'  to  start ;  an'  there's  Raplin, 
an'  Lou — 'nless  the  whole  thing  takes  his  fan- 
cy; an' — oh,  God!  Can't  I  do  no  more  than 
jest  walk?" 

But  over  near  twenty  miles  of  high  bitter 
hill-country  the  boys  were  running  true;  and, 
although  they  did  not  know  it,  the  glory  of  this 
lay  to  Ted  Douglas'  charge. 

The  hail  shut  off  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
beaten  stick  dropped  from  a  kerosene  tin ;  and 
the  boys  gasped,  stood  upright,  shook  the  blood 
from  battered  faces  and  hands,  and  took  hold 
of  the  mobs  again.  Round  and  underfoot 
thumped  the  thunder  with  the  earnestness  of 
a  steam-hammer  in  full  work,  until  the  throb 
was  cut  now  and  again  by  the  sharp  crackle 


168    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

that  made  the  boys  jump,  and  the  outflung 
anger  of  lightning.  Far  over  on  an  unseen 
face  came  the  roar  that  was  neither  thunder  nor 
wind  nor  the  roll  of  balls  down  a  skittle  alley. 
The  top  of  a  big  tree  sliced  the  mist  for  an  in- 
stant as  it  pitched  forward.  Then  the  mighty 
groan  of  the  parted  slip  filled  earth,  and  rang 
against  the  sky  until  it  settled  to  silence  far 
down  in  a  gully-bottom. 

"There'll  be  jes'  the  naked  skull  o'  that  hill 
grinnin'  at  us  in  the  morninV  said  Moody, 
startled  to  speech.  Then  he  shivered  in  the 
soaked  rags  that  clung  to  him.  For  it  was 
quite  possible  that  the  Brothers  might  also 
stand  up  skull-bare,  and  grin  over  the  death 
that  lay  hid  at  the  bottom. 

The  shingle  tread  where  four  men  worked 
was  sloppy  as  the  wash  in  a  dredge-bucket ;  and 
the  sheep  stumbled  on  it,  weighted  with  water, 
and  crying  against  the  unwearied  menace  of 
the  dogs.  And  still  the  chain  dragged  for- 
ward, pulling  all  life  with  it ;  and  still  the  rain 
pelted  straightly,  settling  in  behind  the  earth; 
loosening,  loosening ;  and  still  the  boys  counted 
the  ridges  yet  to  be  won  before  the  easy  slope 
of  the  Dome  shoulder  gave  clean  foothold  of 
tussock  and  broom. 

It  was  Tod  who  heard  first  from  the  tops 
where  the  wind  blew  the  sound  gustily.  First 
the  groan  as  of  a  calving  iceberg;  then  the 
quick  snarl  of  shingle,  and  the  following  roar 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     169 

that  widened  and  grew  faint  and  died  out  in 
the  river  below. 

"Now  sorra  a  bit  of  sheep  will  we  be  takin* 
off  of  that  shoulder  this  great  while,"  he  said. 
"An5  it's  bad  it'll  be  for  army  misfort'nit  crath- 
ur  what  we  left  there.  But  will  we  git  off 
out  of  that  befure  another  will  be  comin',  I 
wonder?" 

Scott  heard  it,  and  fear  caught  him  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  He  wheeled,  saw  the  tail- 
end  of  it,  and  began  to  run.  A  straight-flung 
stone  fleshed  his  ear,  and  he  blinked  up  at 
Steve,  blocked  out  on  the  scarp  above.  Then 
a  greater  fear  caught  Scott.  For  payment  for 
all  things  would  be  required  in  camp  this  night, 
and  there  would  be  Ted  Douglas  to  face  after. 
He  dropped  back  sullenly,  swarming  up  the 
lean  ridge  before  him  with  the  wet  wind  cut- 
ting his  eyes  and  chilled  hands. 

Among  the  rotten  rock  and  the  flint  and 
mica  where  the  lightning  zipped  and  the  rain 
gallopped  down  in  deep  channels,  Lou  was 
finding  purer  joy  than  had  been  his  since  the 
day  that  broke  him  in  open  square  before  two 
troops  of  Irregulars  and  one  Home  regiment. 
For  always  a  brave  man  loves  to  stand  up  to  a 
force  that  is  greater  than  he.  Ted  Douglas 
heard  the  slip,  and  a  pain  beyond  body-weari- 
ness set  in  his  face.  Quite  certainly  he  knew 
that  the  sheep  must  have  got  back  on  them, 
again  and  yet  again,  though  each  man  did  his 


170    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

utmost.  And  who  could  know  until  the  hour 
was  past  whether  or  no  each  man  had  done  his 
utmost  ? 

"I  jes'  got  to  trust  'em,"  he  said,  over  and 

many  times  over.  "But,  by ,  I'll  kill  the 

man  what  don't  bring  in  his  mob,  I  will.  I 
will." 

The  wind  plucked  their  skins  with  wet  sharp- 
ened fingers;  it  spread  the  gutters  into  froth, 
and  spun  shingle  abroad,  and  flattened  the  tus- 
socks where  straining  hands  grasped  at  it.  The 
boys'  eyes  stung  and  blinded  in  the  sockets,  and 
the  whistle  fell  dumb  on  their  lips.  But  the 
dogs  worked  by  the  arm-swing  and  the  jerked 
stone,  and  by  their  own  stout-hearted  wisdom; 
and  slowly  and  very  heavily,  the  line  drew 
forward  and  together,  and  ran,  stream  by 
stream,  to  the  slope  of  the  Dome's  western 
flank. 

Night  was  very  near,  and  the  wind  blew  by 
in  great  scuds  of  rain.  Perhaps  none  but  Ted 
Douglas  could  have  picked  each  separate  lot 
and  the  man  in  charge,  and  he  said  little  as  the 
sodden  mobs  tailed  in.  But  Danny,  tripping 
on  the  first  mouthful  of  speech  to  his  fellows 
since  daybreak,  declared : 

"Ted's  feelin'  good  down  ter  the  bottom  of 
his  spines,  he  is.  An'  so  is  we  feelin'  good,  an' 
why  not?  'Tain't  every  periodic  set  o'  fellers 
as  cud  'a'  mustered  on  the  Brothers  ter-day." 

"Well,  now,  an'  cock  you  up,"  cried  Tod, 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     171 

stumbling,  exhausted  and  lame,  through  the 
snow-grass.  "It's  illigant  hayros  we  are  an' 
all  not  to  be  runnin'  from  the  work  cut  out  on 
us  wid  our  tails  down  betune  our  legs — more 
be  chance  that  Ted  wud  be  afther  us  wid  the 
big  fisht  of  him,  too." 

'Twouldn't  hev  taken  him  long  ter  hev 
catched  me,"  said  Steve,  going  by  with  his 
waistcoat  strapped  round  his  bare  foot  by  flax- 
withes.  "Is  that  Buck  wi'  the  tents  over  by  the 
whare,  or  is  it  the  top  of  the  Dome  come  down 
for  an  airin'?" 

It  was  the  tents  glimmering  like  moths  on 
the  dark,  and  Buck  came  from  the  sod  hut  at 
the  shout,  leaving  three  billies  sputtering  on  the 
leaping  flames,  and  a  damped  turning  black  in 
the  ashes.  With  the  fear  of  all  things  in  his 
mouth  he  cast  himself  upon  the  van,  demand- 
ing how  many  were  killed  in  the  slip,  how  many 
sheep  they  had  brought  down,  how  many 
hours 

Here  Mogger  took  him  by  the  collar. 

"Rouse  up  all  the  feed  an'  drink  yer  kin  fin' 
while  we  gits  the  sheep  inter  the  gully,"  he  said. 
"An'  jes'  be  rememberin'  as  we  wants  fillin' 
from  our  toe-nails  up  ter  our  back-teeth." 

The  gully-mouth  was  stoppered  by  tied 
dogs,  spent  and  foot-sore,  but  unconquered  yet. 
Then  the  boys  stormed  the  whare;  stripping 
their  soaked  clothes  to  the  heat,  and  singing 
the  song  of  the  Homeward  Bound  when  the 


172    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

last  great  fight  is  won.  And  without  doubt, 
it  is  a  song  to  make  the  pulses  gallop. 

No  man  thought  to  thump  Buck  because  he 
had  packed  candles,  butter  and  cutlery  loose 
in  one  sack. 

"Sure,  it's  all  good  aitin'  when  ye  shut  ye're 
eyes  fast  enough,"  said  Tod,  and  was  forthwith 
pitched  into  a  corner  for  stepping  on  Conlon's 
new-made  damper.  The  content  of  all  the 
world  was  in  Ted  Douglas'  face  and  in  his 
voice.  And  this  was  quite  to  be  understood; 
for  the  boys  had  proved  themselves,  one  and 
all,  for  the  honour  and  good  of  Mains  and  of 
their  manhood.  Steve  muttered  four  words  to 
him  that  made  his  eyes  flame. 

"It's  you  helt  'em,"  he  said. 

Then  someone  kicked  the  door  open,  crying: 

"Can  you  chaps  put  up  three  more  to-night? 
We're  out  o'  our  reckoning  an*  it's  brutal 
dark." 

"Ach,  come  in  be  all  manes,"  cried  Tod;  "if 
so  be  ye'll  excuse  as  we  ain't  dressed  for  call- 
ers." 

His  coat  and  shirt  smoked  before  the  fire; 
but  Lou  wore  a  blanket  only,  and  Raplin  was 
still  wringing  the  water  out  of  his  trousers.  A 
couple  of  swags  rolled  inside  the  door,  and 
Steve  bounced  across  the  hut  promptly. 

"Ain't  got  a  spare  pair  o'  boots  in  there,  are 
yer?"  he  demanded.  "Big  ones?" 

"You  be  blowed,  Steve  Derral,"  said  the  first 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     173 

man.  "I  didn't  was  a  ellerfunt  ever.  But  per- 
haps Jimmie " 

Then  the  boys  gasped.  For  two  men  were 
musterers  from  Glenhula,  and  the  third  man 
was  Jimmie  Elaine. 

Danny  rescued  from  the  flame  the  shirt  that 
Ted  Douglas  dropped  as  he  jumped  for- 
ward. 

"Jimmie!    Hello,  Jimmie,  old  boy " 

Jimmie  swung  his  back  to  the  eager  hand. 

"I  ain't  talkin'  wi'  you,"  he  said. 

Silence  cut  sheer  down  through  talk  and 
movement,  so  that  the  shudder  of  the  tent-flaps 
out  in  the  wind  sounded  loudly.  Murray  had 
sworn  secrecy  on  the  boys  who  had  come  up 
from  the  township  in  the  last  week  to  bring  the 
sheep  in  to  Mains.  But  Scott  broke  his  oath 
with  deliberation.  It  was  Danny's  unshaken 
opinion  that  Scott  would  cause  dissension  even 
among  the  worms  that  should  eat  him. 

"Per'aps  Ted  ain't  any  too  keen  hisself  ter 
be  speakin'  ter  a  liar  an'  a  thief,"  he  said. 

Jimmie  slid  out  of  his  oilskins,  and  his 
peaked  face  flamed. 

"Who  you  callin'  names?"  he  demanded. 

"You,"  said  Scott,  in  simple  explanation; 
and  Lou,  propped  against  the  wall  in  his  grey 
blanket,  grinned  on  the  pipe-stem.  He  had 
seen  a  court-martial  before,  with  himself  on 
the  drum-head.  Then  Mogger  paid  in  his 
contribution: 


174     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Did  yer  tell  Murray  as  it  was  Ted  lifted 
all  Buggy's  rhino,  an'  let  the  old  chap  peg  out 
wi'  his  ribs  stickin'  together?    Did  yer,  you — 
Spit  it  out,  or  we'll  make  yer." 

Ted  was  staring,  the  colour  gone  from  his 
face,  his  hand  shut  on  Megger's  shoulder. 
Steve  saw  only  that  the  shock  of  this  had 
caught  him  full-flood  and  unprepared. 

"Ted,"  he  cried.  "Ted,  old  man,  yer  needn't 
think  there's  one  o'  us  believes  it!  If  it  was 
twenty  thousand  gone  'stead  o'  two,  we'd  not 
think  as  you  took  it,  Ted.' 

Ted  put  him  aside. 

"Jimmie,"  he  said.  "What  are  they  savin', 
Jimmie?" 

"We're  tellin'  him  as  he  stole  it  himself— 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Ted,  speaking  through 
his  teeth.  "Are  you  going  to  take  it  back, 
Raplin?" 

"Ask  Jimmie  will  he  plaze  tell  Raplin  that 
same,"  suggested  Tod,  and  Scott  laughed. 

"Jimmie's  got  other  fish  to  fry,"  he  said. 
"How  yer  goin'  ter  prove  in  Court  as  Ted 
tuk  it,  Jimmie?  Yer  telled  Murray  yer  would, 
yer  know." 

Lou  put  aside  the  smoke-wreath  gently, 
looking  over  at  Jimmie.  And  Jimmie  stood 
with  loose  hands,  and  a  brain  that  would  tell 
him  nothing.  Once  before  the  boys  had  had  the 
handling  of  him  in  their  wrath,  and  he  had  been 
very  much  afraid'.  But  there  was  that  in  the 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     175 

faces  now  clogged  his  blood,  and  made  his 
tongue  dumb. 

"  Jimmie,"  said  Ted,  "y°u  near  what  they're 
sayin'  of  yer?  Give  them  the  lie,  lad,  an'  I'll 
take  it  through  fur  you.  I'll  take  it  through 
on  them  all  if  you'll  tell  'em,  Jimmie." 

"What  would  you  have  him  tell?"  said  Con- 
Ion  in  contempt.  "He  fleeced  the  poor  old 
beggar  right  and  left,  and  then  tried  to  put  the 
blame  on  you.  D'you  think  we're  fools  that 
we  can't  see  that?" 

"He  never  did!  Jimmie,  you  must  stand  up 
to  it  now!  Tell  'em,  lad.  Tell  'em  it's  lies- 
lies!  We'll  take  it  through  together,  Jim!" 

The  firelight  was  full  on  Ted's  drawn 
anxious  face,  and  flickering  on  the  faces 
around.  To  Lou  it  was  very  funny  that  un- 
buttoned shirts  and  half-clothed  bodies  should 
belong  to  those  faces.  For  they  were  purely 
savage  in  their  just  anger.  Jimmie  was  glanc- 
ing round  with  swift  hunted  eyes;  but  still  he 
did  not  speak. 

"Musha,  it's  the  foine  hayro  an'  all  he  is," 
said  Tod.  "Is  it  for  a  wake  ould  man  only  that 
ye  have  an  answer  on  ye,  me  boyo?" 

"Jimmie,  haven't  yer  a  word  in  yer,  man? 
For  God's  sake  give  him  that  in  his  teeth!" 

Jimmie  opened  his  lips ;  but  no  sound  came, 
and  only  Lou  was  beating  a  little  tune  on  the 
back  of  his  hand  with  his  pipe-bowl. 

"Jimmie!" 


176    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

It  was  a  cry  that  lifted  even  Lou's  eyebrows 
with  the  pain  of  it.  Then  Scott  stood  up. 

"Reckon  as  he  ain't  got  no  back-talk  fur 
onst,"  he  said.  "An5  reckon  as  we  ain't  chum- 
min'  wi'  one  o'  his  kidney  what's  not  got  the 
pluck  ter  stan'  up  ter  his  words.  Tie  him  up, 
an*  chuck  him  in  a  corner.  We'll  take  him 
along  ter  Murray  in  the  mornin' !" 

Ted  Douglas  put  aside  the  eager  hands. 

"Holt  on  a  minute,"  he  said;  and  a  thread 
in  his  voice  steadied  them.  "  Jimmie  told  Mur- 
ray under  oath,  I  suppose;  but  he  wouldn't 
guv  me  away  here.  He'd  sooner  take  what  yer 
said  o'  him  than  that.  So  I  tells  yer  meself.  I 
tuk  all  old  Buggy's  cash,  an'  he  wouldn't  tell, 
fur  he  knew  as  folks'd  be  offerin'  him  charity. 
Fur  his  dyin'  like  he  did  it's  me  to  answer  come 
Settlin'  Day.  Me — not  Jimmie.  But  Jimmie 
was  the  on'y  one  as  knowed  it.  Now  ye  all 
know." 

Then  he  wheeled,  and  went  out  into  the  black 
night  where  the  wind  raved. 

"And  that's  the  biggest  lie  Ted  Douglas 
ever  told,"  said  Steve. 

But  Lou  answered  for  more  than  one  when 
he  said: 

"Where's  your  voucher  for  that,  eh?" 


CHAPTER  XII 

"You  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Ted 
Douglas,  fiercely.  "He  corned  down  here  last 
night,  an'  he  wi'  every  man's  lyin'  mouth  agin 
him.  An'  this  mornin'  he's  lighted  out  some- 
wheres.  Where  is  he  gone?  What  did  yer  do 
ter  him — fur  he'd  be  sure  ter  come  ter  you, 
being  a  Carth'lic." 

Father  Denis  reached  a  fat  arm  and  clapped 
the  door  to,  swiftly.  For  without,  in  the  pad- 
dock that  sloped  to  the  creek,  the  school  chil- 
dren were  playing  cricket,  and  sound  carried 
far  in  the  still  air. 

"I'm  thinkin'  we'd  du  foine  wid  no  ears 
stretchin'  too  close,"  he  said.  "  Jimmie  Blaine, 
is  ut?  Yes,  he  came  tu  me.  What  then?" 

"They  put  the  lie  on  him  up  at  the  Iron 
Hut,"  said  Ted,  speaking  with  stiff  lips.  "I 
know  as  Jimmie  don't  know  nothin'  nor  ain't 
told  Murray  nothin'.  But  yer  can't  argue  wi' 
them  boys,  so  I  tuk  the  whole  blame  an'  had 
done  wi'  it.  Most  on  'em  ain't  spoke  wi'  me 
since.  That's  easy  righted.  But  I  want  ter 
know  does  Jimmie  think  they'll  put  it  on  ter 
him  fur  truth?  I'd  'a'  knocked  their  silly  heads 

177 


178     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

off  of  'em  straight-away ;  but — but  he'd  sooner 
take  all  their  lip  than  my  help.  He  were 
proper  mad  wi'  me.  An'  now  he's  gone,  an'  I 
don't  know  where.  Is  he  'feared,  Father 
Denis?  He — he  ain't  jus'  got  all  the  pluck  a 
feller  needs  these  days,  yer  see." 

"You  know  why  he  has  gone,"  said  Father 
Denis,  gravely. 

"I  don't,"  said  Ted,  bluntly.  "Would  I  be 
askin'  if  I  did?" 

"Is  there  wan  ov  us  does  not  know  from 
what  the  ould  man  said  that  ut  is  your  own 
blame  or  his,  Ted  Douglas?  An'  yer  own 
heart  tells  ye  that  ut  is  not  tu  yersilf." 

Ted's  eyes  darkened.  Then  he  straightened, 
speaking  slowly. 

"You're  tongueing  wi'  the  pack,  too,  are 
you?  All  right.  It  was  me  as  tuk  it — never 
Jimmie.  The  boys  know.  I  told  them.  An' 
now  I  tell  you." 

Father  Denis  fumbled  with  his  pipe,  laid  it 
down,  and  spoke  huskily. 

"Throth!  ye  nade  not  thry  that  fulish  game 
on  wid  me,  bhoy.  Ut  was  wan  or  the  other  ov 
ye,  Ted,  an'  ut  was  him.  I  know  ut  ahl  from 
his  own  mouth.  He  did  ut,  an'  he  wud  shift 
the  blame  ontu  yersilf  because  ye  have  shamed 
him  befure  his  mates,  Ted  Douglas." 

The  strong  young  face  opposite  was  blank. 
The  big  hard  hands  groped  on  the  table  cover. 
Father  Denis  glanced  toward  the  shadowed 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     179 

blurr  that  was  the  girl  on  the  wall,  and  his 
mouth  was  dumb  with  pity.  For  he  knew  that 
neither  God  nor  devil  calls  man  to  more  sacred 
or  sterner  trusts  than  friendship  demands. 
Then  Ted's  words  came  with  a  rush. 

"He  never!  He  never!  Oh,  Heaven  above 
us,  ye're  lyin'!  Not  Jimmie!  Not  him!" 

"Ut  is  thruth,  bhoy,  word  and  word.  He 
gave  ut  tu  me  at  the  Confessional  wi'  the  fear 
ov  ould  Buggy's  death  lyin'  on  his  sowl  tu 
loose  his  tongue." 

Ted  caught  his  breath  in  a  half  sob,  turned 
suddenly ;  bending  his  knee  on  a  chair  seat,  and 
bowing  his  head  over  his  arms  on  the  table. 
Father  Denis  coughed,  once  and  twice,  and 
walked  over  to  the  window.  Through  the 
warm  sweet  gloaming  the  sound  of  laughter 
and  the  crack  of  the  bat  came  sharply.  Along 
the  clay  bank  a  merry  row  of  girls  clapped  the 
boy  who  caught  the  ball  and  fell  on  his  back 
with  it.  Time  was  when  Father  Denis  had 
watched  Jimmie  and  Ted  Douglas  run  be- 
tween the  sticks,  and  had  thrown  bull's-eyes 
as  reward. 

"If  ut  had  not  been  Confessional!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Begorra!  whoy  cud  I  not  take  the 
kickin'  little  beast  be  the  scruff  ov  the  neck  an' 
hand  him  over  tu  Murray  straight  at  once?" 

The  breast  of  Ted's  coat  brushed  his  shoul- 
der. Ted  had  come  straight  from  a  full  day's 
draughting  on  Mains,  and  the  taint  and  dust  of 


180    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  yards  was  on  him  yet.  But  neither  noticed 
it. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  has  gone,  Father 
Denis?" 

"Whisht  now!  Take  ut  aisy,  man."  The 
light  tone  did  not  run  true.  "There  is  over- 
much throuble  in  the  worrld  for  us  tu  be  tuckin' 
up  our  trousers  an'  wadin'  into  ahl  we  see. 
Jimmie  was  mate  tu  ye.  Now  he  will  not  be 
mate  anny  more.  Ye  must  shmoke  yer  poipe 
on  that,  bhoy — an'  ut  is  not  entoirely  cowld 
comfort,  ayther!" 

"You  don't  mean — for  Heaven's  sake — he 
hasn't " 

"Ye  mean  did  he  kill  himself  because  there 
is  blood  laid  tu  his  dure?"  asked  the  priest, 
dryly.  "I  will  answer  for  ut  that  he  has  not! 
He  will  be  nursin'  his  loife  if  I  know  anything 
ov  Jimmie  Elaine.  For  he  has  gone  wid  no  ab- 
solution tu  the  dhirty  sowl  ov  him.  I  cud  not 
du  much,  him  comin'  tu  me  in  Confession ;  bhut 
I  did  what  I  cud.  Ye  will  be  cleared  in  a  week, 
Ted,  when  he  is  over  the  say,  or  I  cud  not  be 
tellin'  ye  this  much.  An'  he  will  be  havin'  a 
parcel  ov  careful  years  tu  chew  on  his  sins,  for 
I  did  not  lift  the  curse  that  was  throublin'  him. 
Bhut — I  was  near  afther  givin'  him  another 
wan  tu  set  down  besoide  ut  fur  company— 

"Yer  didn't!  Oh,  yer  didn't  do  that  ter 
Jimmie.  You  brute!  Oh,  you  brute !" 

"Tut-t-t!    I  wud  not  be  takin'  that  from  ye 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     181 

another  toime,  Ted  Douglas !  He  is  not  wuth 
the  mindin',  bhoy.  He  is  a  clattherin'  koradi 
shtick  what  will  break  over  the  fust  knee  that 
strains  tu  ut.  He  had  not  the  pluck  tu  damn 
ye  as  he  meant  to  du  in  the  hate  ov  him.  He 
was  'feared  ov  the  bhoys — and  good  sinse  tu 
him,  tu !  So  he  just  run  away  out  ov  ut,  leavin* 
ye  tu  bear  ut  till  he  is  safe.  Ye're  on  bail,  Ted  ? 
Yes ;  of  course.  An'  Jimmie  would  have  been 
that  same  if  Murray  had  been  an  hour  earlier. 
By  the  Howly  Powers!  nivir  did  I  want  tu 
break  the  Confessional  harrder  than  I  did  whin 
he  came  tu  me.  Ut  is  broken  tu  you,  Ted. 
Bhut  even  he  trusted  ye,  the  mane  little 
snoipe!"  Then  the  big  hand  came  on  Ted's 
shoulder.  "Ye  must  face  it,  bhoy.  Ut  is 
not  the  present  disgrace  ye're  moindin*.  Bhut 
there  were  men  before  this  day  poured  ahl  the 
luve  ov  their  hearrts  intu  dhirty  little  cans  that 
wud  howld  bhut  the  half.  Bedad!  ut's  the 
dhirty  little  can  an'  ahl  that  Jimmie  is,  Ted, 
bhoy." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Ted.  He  was  breathing 
heavily,  and  through  the  twilight  Father  Denis 
could  but  guess  at  the  force  controlling  voice 
and  body.  "Jimmie's  my  mate.  If  he  telled 
you  he  done — all  this,  then  he  done  it.  He 
wouldn't  stick  to  it  before  the  boys." 

Father  Denis  remembered  the  pitiless  ques- 
tioning which  had  drawn  the  bald  truth  from 
Jimmie. 


182     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Ted,  bhoy,  he  hates  ye.  Wud  he  have  come 
down  tu  the  township  bhut  tu  forswear  him- 
silf  aginst  ye?  He  meant  that;  bhut  he  had 
not  the  pluck  tu  du  ut.  Aye;  let  him  go,  an* 
be  done  wi'  it,  Ted.  Ut  is  the  shtick  that  the 
worrld  will  be  breakin'  acrost  his  back  is  the 
wan  thing  will  du  Jimmie  good  this  side  the 
Punishment  Day.  Wud  I  have  sint  him  un- 
shriven  if  I  did  not  know  ut?  Bhoy,  bhoy; 
ye're  dear  tu  me,  wan  an'  ahl.  Bhut  softness 
is  not  mercy  tu  a  sowl  ivery  toime,  Ted 
Douglas." 

"I  must  go  and  find  him,"  said  Ted  Douglas, 
staring  straight  before  him. 

"Ye  will  not  be  that  ov  a  fule!" 

"I  must  find  him.  He's  that  nervous,  an' 
alone,  an'  weak.  I'm  strong." 

"What  wud  Mains  do  widout  ye?" 

This  knife  went  home  as  Father  Denis 
meant  it  to  do.  For  Mains  was  as  dear  to  Ted 
Douglas  as  himself.  But  Jimmie  was  dearer. 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  wouldn't  leave  Mains  fur 
nothin'  else,  an* — if  the  boys  go  makin'  mis- 
takes, an'  me  not  there But  I  can't  help  it. 

Jimmie  has  got  ter  come  first.  Father  Denis, 
if  ever  you  loved  anybody,  you'd  know!" 

The  ring  of  his  voice  through  the  dark  room 
left  silence.  Father  Denis'  heart  was  bared 
to  the  girl  on  the  wall.  For,  of  a  surety,  she 
understood  now,  as  she  had  not  understood  in 
life. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     183 

"I  du  know.  I  had  tu  cut  it  out  ov  me, 
bhoy.  Bhut  I  hov  no  right  tu  counsel  ye  that 
same.  Ye  will  go  if  ye  will,  Ted  Douglas. 
An*  if  ye  bring  him  back  I'll  give  him  that 
trouncin*  me  fingers  was  achin'  tu  give  tu  him 
lasht  week.  Good-night,  thin.  Ye'll  see  me 
agin  befure  ye  go?" 

"I  can't  leave  Mains  till  shearin's  done," 
said  Ted,  heavily.  "There  ain't  nobody  kin 
take  my  place  through  shearin'.  That'll  be  a 
month  if  the  weather  holds  up,  an'  God 
only  knows  where  he'll  be  gone  to.  But 
I  ain't  got  the  right  to  leave  Mains  in  the 
shearin'." 

He  went  out  without  more  words,  and  took 
the  beaten  track  home  through  the  warm  dewy 
evening.  At  close  of  the  fourth  mile,  with  the 
smoke  of  the  whares  rising  soft  grey  from  the 
rise  beyond,  he  met  with  Maiden,  and  halted 
for  the  gay  meeting  all  the  township  took  from 
her. 

"Did  you  see  Crellin's  cart  across  the  Flat, 
Ted?  No?  Then  I'll  have  my  wits  to  cool  a 
half -hour  at  the  river.  Ted,  I  been  helpin* 
Miss  Effie  pack.  She's  goin'  down  to  town  to- 
morrow, you  know,  an'  I  been  takin'  her  up 
some  sewin'.  I'll  come  round  and  lend  Buck 
a  hand  next  time  you're  goin'  campin'.  Shall 
I?" 

"You'll  be  welcome,"  said  Ted,  absently, 
and  tramped  on. 


184    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Maiden's  laugh  lilted  after  him. 

"You'll  be  sorry  you  promised  me  that,  Ted 
Douglas,"  she  called. 

The  burring  of  stones  under  quicker,  heavier 
feet  broke  up  the  silence  that  hung  with  the 
long  twilight  of  the  south  over  rounded  hills 
and  gold-washed  high  road.  Steve's  voice 
came  in  her  ear,  diffidently: 

"Cud — cud  I  be  walkin'  beside  yer, 
Maiden?" 

Maiden's  eyes  dropped  swiftly.  There  was 
coquetry  in  them  too  subtle  for  Steve  to  see. 

"The  road's  more'n  a  chain  wide,  isn't  it?  I 
think  as  there  might  be  room  for  two  beside 
me,  Steve." 

"That  depends  on  how  close  yer  let  me  come, 
Maiden." 

Maiden  laughed.  For  a  masterful  note  was 
in  the  words  suddenly. 

Then  she  gave  him  permission  to  walk  in  the 
wheel-rut  which  his  own  drays  had  scored  five 
inches  deep;  and  she  took  the  crown  of  the 
road,  stepping  daintily,  with  the  quick  step 
that  Steve  rejoiced  to  watch. 

"I'm  glad  ter  see  as  yer  ain't  got  on  that 
Army  rig  ter-night,"  he  ventured  presently, 
with  his  eyes  approving  the  slim  length  of  the 
print-frocked  figure. 

"There's  some  folks  as  is  glad  to  see  me  in 
any  dress,"  remarked  Maiden. 

"Oh!  so'm  I,  o'  course " 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    185 

"Then  you're  glad  to  see  me  in  the  Army 
dress?" 

"I'ilbeblowediflare!" 

"You  said  you  were,  just  now." 

"I  didn't  mean " 

"What  you  said?  Oh,  thank  you.  I  don't 
much  care  for  talkin'  with  men  as  keeps  all 
their  truth  for  other  men,  Steve  Derral." 

"Yer  don't  know  a  man  what  does  that." 

Maiden  was  visibly  disappointed. 

"I  thought  you'd  have  said  as  Lou  does,"  she 
said  carelessly. 

"He's  pretty  sparin'  with  it  all  round." 

"Oh!  there  you  are!  You  can  never  leave 
Lou  alone!  You  daren't  say  that  in  front  of 
him!" 

Steve's  great  muscles  tightened  unbidden. 
He  had  been  in  the  draughting  yards  since  day- 
break ;  but  there  was  no  weariness  in  him. 

'Twouldn't  be  the  fust  time,  anyhow,"  he 
said  composedly.  "D'yer  want  me  ter  tell  him 
agin,  Maiden?" 

Maiden  glanced  across  at  the  wheel-rut. 
Steve  was  outside  size,  and  a  layman  would 
have  called  him  clumsily  built.  But  they  that 
saw  him  stripped  for  fight  on  North-of- Sun- 
day testified  to  the  brawn  and  muscle  that  no 
tallow  had  overlaid. 

"Steve!"  it  was  almost  a  whisper.  "I  won- 
der if  you'd  do  somethin'  I  asked  you  to?" 

"Near  anythin'  on  God's  earth,  my  girlie." 


186    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Well — keep  in  the  rut  for  a  start,  please — 
I  don't  want  you  to  fight  wi'  Lou  no  more, 
Steve." 

Steve  rubbed  his  nose.  There  was  a  lump  on 
the  side  of  it  yet. 

'  'Cos  it  spiles  his  beauty  or  mine?"  he  de- 
manded tartly. 

"Because — because  it's  unmoral." 

Steve  bellowed  a  great  laugh  from  his  chest. 

"Ye  learned  that  from  the  Lassies,  didn't 
yer?  Well,  my  girlie,  I  kin  tell  yer  as  there's 
lots  o'  words  a  sight  more  moral  when  they're 
said  on  yer  fist  than  on  the  p'int  o'  yer  tongue. 
An'  the  or'nary  man'd  feel  pretty  sick  if  yer 
wouldn't  let  him  use  neither,  sometimes." 

"It — it  must  be  wrong  to  fight,  and — not  to 
love  everybody,"  said  Maiden,  fumbling  round 
the  lesson  that  the  Lassies  had  taught  her. 

"I'm  content  wi'  lovin'  one,  anyways,"  said 
Steve,  tramping  on  unabashed.  "Hev  yer 
asked  Lou  ter  turn  Sunday-school,  too?" 

"Ye— yes." 

"Good  fur  you!    What  did  he  say?" 

Maiden's  forehead  burnt.  All  women  and 
many  men  knew  that  a  promise  must  be  bought 
from  Lou. 

Steve  grunted,  and  his  great  fist  shut  in  his 
pocket. 

"Jes'  come  here  a  minute,  Maiden,  will  yer?" 
he  said,  and  took  three  steps  to  the  side  of  the 
permanent  way. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     187 

Maiden  looked  down  the  steep  trend  of 
bracken  and  flax  to  the  tussock  of  the  gully 
where  Lou  was  cutting  out  a  beast  with  Moody 
and  Beckett  to  swing  the  mob.  The  lights 
were  soft  and  shining  in  violet  and  amber 
and  pale  gold,  and  all  the  delicate  sensuous 
scents  of  flowering  cabbage  tree  and  crushed 
raupo  by  the  hoof -tramped  creek  rose  up  to 
them. 

"Lou's  the  cleverest  chap  I  knows,  in  his 
own  place,"  said  Steve.  "His  own  place.  An' 
that's  atop  o'  a  horse,  Maiden.  When  he  gets 
ter  interferin'  wi'  another  chap  he's  got  ter 
learn  sense.  See?" 

Maiden  rested  her  elbow  on  a  kowhai  stump, 
tilting  her  chin  with  a  delicate  forefinger. 
"No,"  she  said  deliberately.    "I  don't  see." 
"I  thought  yer  wouldn't.    That's  why  I  got 
ter  larn  him  instead." 

Maiden  flashed  upright,  white  with  fury. 
"How  dare  you,  Steve!  how  dare  you!    I 

don't  know  what  you  mean " 

"Then  I  don't  see  no  call  to  git  waxy  'bout 
it,  is  there?" 

Maiden  halted ;  kicked  at  a  bunch  of  nodding 
evening  primroses;  then  laughed. 

"If  you're  comin'  to  the  Oddfellows'  dance 
nex'  Friday  I  got  the  first  dance  goin'  begging, 
Steve,"  she  said. 

"Thought  as  yer  b'longed  ter  the  Army 
now." 


188    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"I — I  haven't  joined  yet.  I'm  not  sure — 
but  I'd  like  to  do  folks  good  some  way, 
Steve." 

"My  girlie,  yer  kin  do  it  a  better  way  than 
by  larnin'  the  evil  fust  yerself.  It's  a  al- 
mighty fine  work  them  Lassies  do,  Maiden, 
but  it  ain't  fur  the  likes  o'  you.  Can't  yer  be 
content  wi'  doin'  one  man  good?" 

Maiden  glanced  down  the  gully  where  Lou 
swung  back  in  the  saddle  with  the  snake  of  the 
lash  hissing  round  his  head. 

"He  do  need  it,"  she  murmured. 

Steve  straightened,  biting  back  a  word  on 
his  lips. 

"Maiden,  yer  a  little  caution,"  he  said. 
"There  ain't  nuthin'  a  fellow  knows  'bout  yer 
but  as  yer  ain't  never  twice  alike.  Well  yer 
knowed  as  I  wasn't  meanin'  Lou.  But  if  so 
be  as  you  does,  Maiden " 

"There's  Crellin's  cart,"  said  Maiden.  "I'm 
goin'  to  run.  An'  you  needn't  chase  me  down 
to  the  bridge,  'cause  it'd  look  undignified." 

Steve  said  more  than  one  thing  under  his 
breath  as  Crellin's  strong  hand  helped  her  up. 
Then  she  turned  on  the  high  seat,  and  through 
the  dusk  her  little  handkerchief  flapped  out  at 
him.  He  swung  off  his  cap. 

"Bless  her!"  he  said.  "She  ain't  meanin'  all 
her  nonsense,  my  girlie." 

As  the  cart  rattled  down  the  track  by  the 
gully,  Maiden's  handkerchief  blew  out  again. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     189 

And  this  time  it  was  Lou  who  made  answer, 
sending  a  long  sweet  whistle  through  the 
gloom. 

Steve  saw  from  the  top.    But  he  did  not 
say  anything  of  moment. 


FOB,  a  week  there  were  men  who  said  hard 
things  of  Ted  Douglas:  men  who  suggested 
that  he  had  cause  to  know  why  Jimmie  Elaine 
had  disappeared  utterly  and  beyond  power  of 
Murray's  searching.  But  they  did  not  know 
that  Murray  was  not  searching  very  particu- 
larly, although  Lossin  grumbled  over  it  one 
day,  whilst  Tod  and  two  more  from  Mains  sat 
on  the  edge  of  Blake's  horse  trough  and 
watched  the  teams  drink.  Father  Denis  had 
told  Murray  the  truth  that  morning  before 
breakfast,  and  when  the  Court  sat  at  midday, 
Ted  Douglas  had  been  publicly  cleared  with 
apology.  Then  he  went  to  see  Jimmie's 
mother,  with  Father  Denis  at  his  side,  and  the 
rest  of  the  township  sifted  the  story  through 
their  fingers  in  the  lunch  hour.  They  called 
Jimmie  by  some  names  that  do  not  look  well 
in  print;  they  shied  from  much  talk  of  Ted, 
because  the  prick  of  shame  was  on  them  that 
had  doubted  him,  and  then  they  talked  of 
Murray.  Tod  gave  his  opinion  first. 

"If  ut  was  Murray  as  he  used  to  be  he  would 

190 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     191 

have  found  it  out  a  long  toime  ago.  Bhut  do 
we  not  know  that  somethin'  has  put  the  fear 
an'  all  into  him?  An  'who  wud  it  be  but  Pipi, 
the  ould  omadhaun?" 

"We-ell,"  said  Steve,  slowly,  "where's  the 
sense  o'  goin'  arter  Jimmie,  anyways?  Old 
Buggy  hadn't  a  relation  belongin'  to  him  but 
hisself ,  and  who  would  be  puttin'  in  a  claim  fur 
the  money?" 

"Murray  ain't  got  the  heart  fur  his  work, 
though,"  said  Danny,  wisely;  "an'  ye  kin  bet 
yer  teeth  it's  Pipi's  blame — what?  Sartinly, 
yer  kin  call  it  rot,  Jack  Yates,  but  it's  truth 
fur  all  that.  Didn't  yer  see  it  in  the  parlour 
that  night?  Well,  ef  yer  didn't  see,  I  kin't 
help  it.  There  ain't  been  a  machine  invented 
fur  givin'  a  chap  brains  yet." 

"It  was  Lou  should  'a'  footed  that  bill,"  said 
Derrett,  and  Blake  grinned. 

"Lou's  name  won't  hold  good  fur  all  the 
bills  he  orter  foot.  But  Murray's " 

"Shut  it!"  Steve  enforced  command  with 
his  elbow,  and  the  men  drew  together  to  see 
Murray  go  by  with  a  face  that  had  no  right  to 
belong  to  that  uniform.  For  it  was  the  face 
of  blank  fear.  Thrice  before  the  street-turning 
he  glanced  back  over  his  left  shoulder,  hasten- 
ing speed  at  each  glance. 

Hynes  whistled,  and  spat  into  the  gutter. 

"Shore  'miff,  Murray  has  rats,"  he  said;  and 
Lossin  gave  echo,  with  the  addendum  that  he 


192    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

did  not  care  to  have  the  safety  of  Argyle  de- 
pending on  a  cop  with  rats. 

Steve  scowled,  gathering  up  the  lines,  and 
wearing  his  own  team  round. 

"Don't  you  fret,"  he  said;  "Murray  roped 
the  Packer  in  last  night  what  has  been  goin'  it 
gay  fur  a  week.  He'll  git  you  all  right  when 
he  comes  wantin'  yer." 

Over  the  hill,  on  the  Lion,  Murray  was 
speaking  of  the  Packer  to  Ormond.  Ormond 
had  not  seen  Murray  this  month  past,  and  the 
sight  shocked  him.  For  the  man  was  white- 
lipped  and  nervous;  his  well-knit  body  had 
fallen  away,  and  his  chin  twitched.  Ormond 
made  place  on  the  dried  warm  tailings,  and 
tipped  tea  for  the  other  out  of  his  lunch-billy 
the  while  he  mined  craftily  for  confidence. 

"Yes,  I'll  send  a  man  over  to  bring  in  the 
Packer's  tools,"  he  said.  "Not  that  I  think 
any  one  would  sneak  them.  They're  patched 
with  every  imaginable  thing  under  the  sun. 
And  what  the  devil  is  the  Packer  patched  with, 
Murray?  He's  a  wonder!  At  his  age,  too! 
I  couldn't  stand  it — or  you." 

"We  breed  good  men  yet — for  more  than 
drink,"  said  Murray,  absently. 

Ormond's  eyes  lit  as  he  blinked  downhill 
through  the  run  of  sunshine  to  the  creek  bed 
where  Gordon  and  three  more  staggered  under 
weight  of  a  twenty-one-foot  pipe. 

"We  do  so.     There's  every  breath  of  four 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     193 

ton  in  those  pipes,  and  the  fellows  have  been 
lugging  'em  downhill  these  six  hours.  We're 
going  back  to  paddock  work  again,  you 
know." 

"There's  one  good  man  in  Argyle  who's  been 
bred  for  drink,  I'm  thinking,"  said  Murray, 
irrelevantly. 

Ormond's  palms  ceased  movement  on  the 
half-rubbed  Navy-cut. 

"Randal?" 

Murray  nodded. 

"He's  driving  Conroy's  coach  since  Scannell 
cleared  him.  But  he  won't  last  long  at  that. 
If  he'd  only  have  the  sense  to  cut  the  country 
there  might  be  a  chance  for  him.  But " 

"There  are  two  ways  of  going  through  the 
world,"  said  Ormond,  dogmatically.  "The  one 
is  to  know  your  own  weakness  and  the  other 
man's  strength.  That  gets  you  down  every 
time.  The  other  is  to  know  your  strength,  and 
the  other  man's  weakness;  and  that  gives  you 
the  pull  as  often  as  you  want  it.  Unfortunate- 
ly, Randal  knows  his  weakness " 

"And  the  other  man's  strength?" 

"Precisely.  The  man  in  this  case  being " 

"Kiliat  ?    Yes ;  I  thought  so." 

"Not  that  he  has  any  strength  of  any  kind," 
explained  Ormond,  coming  to  his  feet.  "I 
fancy  his  nurse  must  have  put  him  under  a 
force-pump  in  his  infancy,  and  drawn  out  all 
his  brains  to  make  pap  of.  But  he  has  a  certain 


194    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

way  with  women  that  answers  just  as  well, 
under  existing  circumstances.  Coming  along 
down,  Murray?  Or  are  you  out  on  business?" 

"No — I'm  off  again  to-morrow,  though. 
Plain-clothes  job."  He  laughed  unmirthfully. 
"Chap  hasn't  a  chance  to  grow  fat  in  such  an 
infernally  big  district,"  he  said. 

The  control  of  his  voice  was  too  careful. 
Ormond  had  noted  it  all  along,  remembering 
the  life  of  the  man  before  him.  By  day  or 
night,  on  saddle  or  on  foot,  Murray's  work  lay 
in  the  hunting  of  men.  He  ran  them  down  in 
the  township,  in  the  bush  "pubs,"  in  the  gold 
country,  where  they  fled  to  herd  with  odd  thou- 
sands of  their  fellows,  in  the  lonely  ranges 
with  none  to  come  between  the  curt  menace 
of  the  revolver  and  the  defiance  of  the  cornered 
one.  He  brought  them  to  punishment  such  as 
a  prison  holds  for  limited  months.  He  brought 
them  to  punishment  such  as  the  Argyle  lock- 
up afforded  the  Packer  for  two  sleepy  days, 
and  to  punishment  such  as  ends  in  six  feet  of 
earth  with  no  name  atop.  But  eternally  to 
punishment ;  seeking  out  the  evil  that  is  in  man, 
so  that  it  might  be  hidden  from  other  men. 

Knowing  all  this,  Ormond  shivered  a  little 
on  the  hot  hill-top. 

"You're  looking  seedy,  Murray,"  he  said. 
"Can't  you  manage  a  holiday,  eh?" 

"There's  no  holiday  will  take  a  man  away 
from  himself,"  said  Murray,  speaking  sudden- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     195 

ly.  "Life  can't  do  it.  Nor  Death.  Nor 
Eternity.  Ormond,  it  is  the  cruellest  thing 
Divine  power  could  do  to  decree  that  a  man 
can't  get  away  from  himself  through  all  the 
ages  and  ages  and  ages 

"What  the  thunder  do  you  want  to  get  away 
from  yourself  for?"  demanded  Ormond  in 
amaze. 

"I  don't  know.  If  I  did  I  might  block  it. 
It's  because  I  don't  know — because  I  can  only 
fear—  He  glanced  quickly  over  his  left 

shoulder  and  wheeled.  And  he  did  not  see 
Roddy  Duncan  staring  through  the  broom, 
with  his  half -eaten  lunch  on  his  knees. 

"Ormond,"  he  said,  coming  back,  "you 
heard  about  my  roping  in  Pipi  Wepeha's  son, 
and  about  the  old  chap  coming  into  Blake's 
one  night  and  telling  yarns  that  made  more 
than  one  fellow  feel  a  bit  sick?" 

Ormond  grunted  curt  assent. 

"Since  then,"  said  Murray  slowly,  "I  know 
a  man's  soul  can  be  sensitised  to  things  that 
his  brain  can't  understand — that  his  tongue 
can't  put  into  words.  You  see  the  sweat  ooze 
on  the  green  scarf  of  a  tree,  and  you  know  by 
that  how  a  part  of  it  realises  the  death,  though 
it  can  make  no  sign.  There  is  a  part  of  a 
man  is  as  helpless  as  that,  Ormond." 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  blatant  ass,"  said  Ormond, 
impatiently.  "I'm  as  much  a  man  as  you,  I 
reckon,  but  I'll  swear  that  my  soul  is  a  thing 


196    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

under  command  of  my  brain  and  my  tonguf 
as  it  should  be.     What  else  can  rule  it?" 

"My  God!"  cried  Murray.  "Don't  you  see 
that  I  don't  know?  I  don't  know  what  it  is 
that — that  has  got  hold  of  me.  It  is  only  that 
I  know  that  there  is  more  on  earth — that  there 
is  more  in  the  day  and  night  than  there  used 
to  be,  Ormond;  everything  is  so  awfully  alive. 
If  you  listen  you  can  hear  the  hills  breathing." 

Ormond  came  to  his  feet,  and  took  Murray 
by  the  shoulders. 

"You  go  away  down  to  Dunedin,"  he  said. 
"Get  an  exchange.  Go  and  marry  someone — 
anyone.  Do  something  that'll  get  you  run  in 
on  your  own  account.  Take  a  town-beat,  and 
go  to  music-halls  every  night.  In  a  week 
you'll  find  that  your  own  life  holds  enough 
interest  for  you  to  sharpen  your  teeth  on." 

Murray  laughed,  kicking  loose  stones  down 
to  the  stream  with  a  clatter. 

"Haven't  you  seen  a  tired  kid  crying  its 
heart  out,  with  no  one  in  all  the  house  able  to 
give  it  what  it  wants,  because  it  doesn't  know, 
itself?  You  can't  help  me,  Ormond,  because 
I  don't  know  what  I  want.  I  don't  know." 

Ormond  tapped  his  pipe  stem  on  his  teeth, 
looking  round  on  his  world  as  he  knew  it.  The 
tall  straight  cabbage  trees  on  the  slope  were 
familiar,  and  the  rising  terrace  on  yellow  ter- 
race to  the  ragged  flint  hills  beyond.  The 
greys  of  sand  and  shingle  down  the  Changing 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     197 

Creek  were  familiar,  and  so  were  the  bellows 
of  laughter  from  the  men  feeding  in  the  gay 
sunlight  by  the  pipes.  The  pallor  of  the  toi- 
toi  plumes  meant  nothing,  nor  the  blood-red 
biddy-bid  spread  over  the  scarp  behind  the 
Glory  which  men  called  Fighting  Hill.  Or- 
mond  had  never  asked  for  the  legend. 

"Any  fellow  can  scare  himself  dead  in  a 
month  if  he  lets  imagination  take  grip  enough. 
But  I  didn't  think  you  were  quite  such  an  ass, 
Murray.  So  long  as  a  man  dresses  by  his 
reason  he  does  his  work  as  he  should  do.  But 
once  he  loses  step " 

And  then  came  something  headlong  from 
the  dead  broom  to  clasp  him  about  the  knees, 
and  to  pray  him,  for  God's  sake,  to  win  Mur- 
ray's forgiveness  for  this  horror  that  walked  in 
broad  day.  Roddy's  eyes  were  set  with 
despair,  and  his  speech  broke  as  Ormond 
jerked  him  to  his  feet  in  a  sudden  spate  of 
anger. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry,  but  I've  had  enough 
of  this  tommy-rot  for  one  day!  What  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  eavesdropping,  you 
young " 

"Murray — tell  Murray  I  did  it.  Don't  let 
him  touch  me.  Don't— 

"You  needn't  fret.  I'll  take  as  much  out  of 
you  as  Murray  could  if  I  find  you  deserve  it. 
Stand  up  and  speak  when  I  tell  you.  Now — 
what  have  you  got  to  do  with  this?" 


198    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Pipi — I  gave  him  Murray's  red  necktie.  He 
wanted  to  makutu  him.  I — I  couldn't  help 
it." 

"If  you're  drunk  at  this  hour,"  said  Or- 
mond,  "I'll  take  you  down  and  souse  you  in 
our  new  paddock.  If  you  think  you're  speak- 
ing truth 

Murray  put  him  aside,  grasping  the  boy's 
arm  in  hot  fingers. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Roddy.  I  won't  hurt  you. 
Now  tell  me." 

By  patient  questioning  the  two  wrenched 
from  Roddy  all  that  he  knew.  Then  Ormond 
looked  at  Murray  standing  blank-eyed  in  the 
sun  of  the  hill- top,  and  the  sweat  of  unformed 
dread  sprang  on  him. 

When  a  tohunga  has  hate  for  one  of  his 
kind  that  man  presently  withers  and  dies  as  a 
blown  leaf  on  a  tree.  But  this  arrangement 
is  between  Maori  and  Maori,  when  kindred 
blood,  and  ignorance,  and  minds  soaked  in 
generations  of  superstitions  and  in  knowledge 
of  things  that  the  white  man  does  not  know  of 
must  come  into  account.  By  all  the  laws  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  a  white  man  has  no  right 
to  submit  his  soul  to  a  brown  man's  curse.  By 
all  the  understanding  that  thirty-five  years  of 
life  had  given  Ormond  knew  that  Murray  had 
done  this  thing,  albeit  unwittingly.  He  spoke 
quickly. 

"Murray!    Don't  look  like  that,  man!    It's 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     199 

all  rot.  Rot!  Go  down  an*  strangle  the  old 
brute  with  your  necktie,  and  then  you'll  feel 
better.  There  is  no  sense  in  it,  I  tell  you. 
Roddy's  burbling." 

Murray  plucked  at  his  waistcoat  front.  It 
hung  absurdly  loose. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  very  low,  "I  never 
knew;  but  it's  taking  the  flesh  off  my  bones, 
and  the  nerve  out  of  my  heart,  all  the  same. 
Have  you  got  any  answer  for  that?" 

Ormond  was  trying  to  interpret  things  ac- 
cording to  his  machine-trained  understand- 
ing. 

"Pipi  could  curse  my  whole  wardrobe  till  it 
rotted  for  all  I'd  care.  Murray,  you're  an 
Englishman.  Don't  you  know  better  than  to 
show  funk  before  a  Colonial?" 

"Lou  telled  me,"  muttered  Roddy,  shaking 
on  his  feet.  "He  said  it  meant  things  that 
hadn't  got  any  words  to  'em.  He  said  you'd 
know  it  in  the  smells  that  come  out  o*  the 
swamps  at  night,  an'  in  the  birds  never  singin' 
near  you.  Don't  say  as  you  does  know  it!  Don't 
say  Pipi's  killin*  you  'cause  of  me!  Murray! 
Murray!  I  ain't  done  that!  For  the  sake  o' 
God,  don't  say  as  I've  done  that!" 

"Murray,"  said  Ormond,  and  Murray  an- 
swered to  the  spur  unhesitatingly.  For  the 
knowledge  of  the  irrevocable  is  a  man's  trouble 
only. 

"We  all  have  spells  of  funk  occasionally, 


200    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Roddy — except  the  boss,  here.  I  heard  Pipi's 
yarns  that  night,  as  you  did;  and  I  have  let 
them  work  on  me — also  as  you  did.  That's 
all  there  is  in  it,  of  course;  and  it's  the  toe  of 
my  boot  that  Pipi'll  get  instead  of  neckties 
when  I  run  across  him  again.  But  the  next 
time  I  catch  you  nosing  into  my  private  in- 
sanities I'll  give  you  a  bigger  licking  than 
ever  your  fears  gave  you,  Roddy." 

Ormond  slipped  his  pipe  into  his  pocket,  and 
settled  his  shoulders  comfortably  under  the  old 
coat. 

"Insanities,"  he  said;  "that's  the  truest 
word  you've  spoken  this  day,  Murray.  Take 
old  Pipi  round  the  township  on  your  boot- 
leather,  and  I'll  guarantee  you  won't  hear  any- 
thing worse  than  your  own  snoring  at  night. 
You  cut  along  down,  Roddy.  I'm  just  com- 
ing." 

But  when  Roddy  had  gone  he  put  his  hands 
on  the  other  man's  shoulders. 

"Murray,  old  chap,"  he  said. 

Murray's  eyes  did  not  lift. 

"Don't!"  he  said  in  his  throat.  "Don't!  I've 
got  to  battle  it  out  on  my  own.  I  can't  under- 
stand. But  I've  got  to  meet  it  alone, 
Ormond." 

"Murray " 

"You  can't  help,  old  chap.  Let  me  go.  I 
can't  understand — no,  I  won't  go  under  if  I 
can  help  myself.  So-long." 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     201 

"I'd  like  to  wring  young  Roddy's  neck!" 
said  Ormond. 

Then  he  went  downhill  to  bolt  the  flanges  of 
twelve-inch  pipes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"WAKE,  you  lumber'ead!  wake  I  Jump 
inter  your  clothes  an'  come  down.  There's  a 
suicide.  Somebody's  took  pizen  in  Phelan's. 
They  says  as  he's  prayin'  an'  repentin'  on  every 
doormat  in  the  'ouse,  an'  requestin'  a  doctor. 
Will  you  wake  up  ?" 

This  was  the  first  watch  of  the  night,  and 
Randal  growled  in  his  bed  as  Conroy  shook 
sleep  from  him  with  frantic  hands. 

"Sling  it  up.  Who's  the  johnny?  Oh— I 
don't  care,  anyway,  Conroy.  Let  me  sleep." 

Conroy  struck  a  match  to  the  candle,  and 
his  shock  head  and  strained  eyes  sprang  out 
of  the  dark.  He  ran  the  whole  coach  service 
of  the  district,  and  at  this  present  he  ran  Ran- 
dal as  well.  Incidentally,  Randal  was  the 
neatest  driver  he  had  known  these  six  years. 

"Didn't  'ear  'is  name.  Murray's  bringin' 
him  round  here.  I've  ordered  a  team  inter  the 
old  coach,  an'  you'll  take  the  chap  down  to 
Three  Corners,  eyes  out.  We  ain't  wantin' 
no  inques'  held  in  Argyle." 

Randal  sat  up  and  blinked  where  reflection 

202 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    203 

from  a  lantern  below  travelled  round  the  bare 
wall  and  was  gone.  Beyond  the  window  the 
still  night  was  crazy  with  clatter  of  boots  on 
the  flags,  and  grating  of  wheels  and  the  ring  of 
iron  on  stone  as  startled  horses  plunged  out  of 
the  boxes.  And  the  pelted  talk  of  the  stable- 
man was  virile  and  very  real.  He  rolled  out 
on  the  floor. 

"It'll  take  the  all  of  two  hours.  Will  we 
catch  the  train?  Is  he  bad  yet?" 

"There  was  too  many  tellin'  fur  me  to  know 
anythin'.  You  got  to  be  back  in  time  to  take 
the  reg'lar  coach  down.  That's  all  I  care. 
An'  as  I  had  to  guv  yer  a  scratch  team,  you've 
got  the  old  coach,  Randal.  It  don't  matter  if 
you  smash  that  up." 

"D ,"  said  Randal,  and  clawed  round 

the  bedfoot  for  his  clothes. 

He  took  the  steep  back-stairs  three  at  a 
time,  and  raced  round  to  the  mews.  The  stir 
of  haste  and  disgust  leavened  all  things.  The 
men  showed  half -clothed  in  the  lantern  flashes, 
and  from  the  moving  rush  of  strenuous  faces 
and  hairy  glossed  quarters  a  voice  cursed, 
copious  and  profound.  Randal  was  utterly 
weary,  for  he  had  been  on  the  box  all  day. 
Besides,  he  was  robbed  of  the  sleep  which  only 
gave  him  forgetfulness.  He  dived  in  where 
the  jangle  of  steel  sounded  round  the  coach 
bulk,  and  grabbed  a  stableman  under  the  fore 
carriage. 


204    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"What  are  you  giving  me?  The  Thunderer 
mare !  Good  Jupiter !  What  else  ?" 

A  couple  of  men  step-danced  with  the  mare 
to  her  place  on  the  off  lead;  from  a  wheeler 
came  the  steady  sound  of  practised  kick- 
ing, and  three  voices  gave  information  as 
one. 

"Boss  said  not  crawlers  nor  reg'lars, 

so "  "Ah,  but  it's  all  one  to  you,  Randal. 

You'll  manage  anythin'  with  hide  on " 

"So  we  guv  yer  goers,  an'  if  yer  larrup  the 

mare  circumstantial  at  the  offset "  "Arrah, 

phwhat  matther  annyways?  Young  Art's 
neck  is  not  wuth  breakin'  at  all,  an'  Randal 
cares  just  that  much  for  himsilf,  ivery  inch." 

"Art!"  said  Randal,  and  dropped  the  girth 
he  was  handling.  "Art  Scannell?" 

"That's  him  every  time,"  said  Lossin  from 
somewhere.  "They're  bringin'  him  now. 
Crickey!  He  ain't  dead  yet." 

Randal  caught  at  a  flange  of  the  great 
wedge  of  men  that  surged  past. 

"Derrett!    Is  he  suffering?" 

"Not  pertic'lar.  They've  loaded  him  up  wi' 
whiskey  what'd  scupper  any  or'nary  man,  an* 
he  aint  curlin'  an'  he  ain't  drunk.  Jest  pious! 
An'  that's  a  new  line  for  Art.  He's  bin  play- 
in'  wi'  the  Salvation  Army  o'  late." 

Murray's  quick,  alert  tones  cut  the  raffle  of 
sound,  and  Randal  saw  the  flash  of  his  strong 
face  above  some  dark  struggling  thing. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     205 

"Make  way  there!  Make  way!  Where's 
the  door?  Now ." 

Quick  hands  punted  the  struggling  thing 
into  the  coach  bottom,  and  Murray  leapt  after. 
Randal  heard  the  door  slam  as  Lossin  yelled 
cheerfully: 

"Git  the  old  hearse  agoin',  Randal.  Make 
her  chirrup !" 

Randal  was  overlooking  traces  and  head- 
stalls rapidly  and  with  care;  for  instinct  as- 
serts itself  above  the  senses.  He  took  up  a 
hole  in  the  mare's  throat  lash,  and  she  reached 
with  the  speed  of  a  striking  snake,  so  that  the 
front  of  his  shirt  and  some  flesh  below  came 
away  in  her  strong  buck-teeth. 

Randal  buttoned  his  coat  and  climbed  to  the 
box.  The  floodtide  of  fury  will  sweep  out  all 
other  sensations,  and  just  now  he  wanted  only 
to  be  where  he  could  kill  the  mare  scientifically. 

"Stand  clear  down  below!    Let  'em  rip!" 

Gentling  hands  dropped  from  four  wild- 
eyed  heads,  and  the  team  canted  all  ways.  For 
they  were  unwarmed  as  yet,  and  in  temper 
pure  devils.  Murray  jammed  Art  Scannell 
in  the  coach  corner  with  a  stout  leg,  and  clung 
on  by  such  power  as  he  had.  And  a  quiver  of 
excitement  throbbed  in  the  sluggish  blood  that 
weeks  of  dread  was  beginning  to  chill.  From 
a  loose  box  door  Lossin  was  earnestly  averring 
that  he  did  not  envy  any  of  those  three  who 
were  assuredly  going  to  perdition  inside  of 


206    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

two  minutes.  Murray  laughed  to  hear;  and 
to  hear  the  steady  talk  of  the  long  whip, 
and  the  pulsing  fire  of  hoofs  as  the  four 
mad  beasts  in  the  chains  bucked  and  ran  back 
on  each  other  and  fought  the  weight  of  the 
bit. 

On  the  box-seat  Randal  was  unerringly 
gaining  command.  The  team  dropped  back 
on  its  haunches,  took  breath,  and  sprang  with 
a  crash  that  made  the  old  coach  leap  like  a 
landed  fish.  Randal  swung  then  hard  for  the 
alleyway,  and  Art  Scannell  thrust  his  head 
through  the  window  before  Murray  could  block 
him. 

"I'm  going  to  glory!"  he  cried.  "I  like  it! 
Fellow-sinners,  take  what's-his-name,  and  come 

along  to  glor "  Then  the  flash  of  lamps, 

and  the  darting  tongue  of  the  long  lash  and 
the  blown  foam  from  wide-set  nostrils,  passed 
on  to  the  unbroken  thunder  of  hoofs  that  roared 
into  the  night  up  the  road. 

Randal  eased  the  pull,  and  settled  his  feet 
in  the  irons. 

"Go  it,  you  serene  cripples,"  he  said.  "But 
if  you're  not  blown  in  four  miles,  we'll  be  all 
to  glory  with  Art." 

Then  realisation  struck  down  on  him, 
making  him  giddy  for  one  moment  of  horror. 
Erne!  What  would  Erne  say  to  him  if  he  lost 
Art  for  her?  By  her  love  for  her  twin  Randal 
had  first  caught  her.  By  it  he  held  her,  fearing 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    207 

ever  lest  the  chord  should  break.  And  every 
breath  told  him  that  it  must  break,  soon  or 
late. 

The  team  was  half  raw  and  purely  mad.  It 
charged  the  heavy  tree  shadows  blocked  out  on 
the  road  as  if  they  were  fences,  and  took  them 
flying.  The  coach  rocked  and  bucketted;  the 
lamp-light  shook  in  speckles  from  the  wild  up- 
flung  head  of  the  mare  to  the  long  straight 
wither  and  neck  behind  her.  Something  ribbed 
like  a  whaleboat  was  mate  to  the  mare.  It 
bored  with  a  steady  sidelong  persistence  that 
meant  trouble.  Straight  ahead  the  road  ran 
into  the  stars,  and  the  wind  blown  from  their 
far  cold  glow  whistled  up  under  Randal's  coat 
to  numb  the  trickle  of  blood  down  his  ribs.  He 
was  twisted  sideways  that  the  strain  of  his  arm 
across  his  left  side  might  deaden  the  pain,  when 
Murray's  head  came  through  the  front  window. 
There  was  a  ring  in  his  voice  that  had  not  been 
there  these  two  months. 

"By  Jove,  Randal,  it's  good!  Oh,  it's  good, 
man !  They  are  cutting  it  out.  It  takes  a  man 
away  from " 

"How's  Art?"  said  Randal,  unmoving. 

"Seems  pretty  right.  He's  praying  down 
there."  Murray  laughed  easily.  "By  George, 
Randal!  I'm  glad  Saurian  was  away  up  the 
Pass.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this — what  are 
they  going  to  do  now?" 

"Going  to  Hell,  I  think.     Get  back,  and 


208    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

don't  let  Art  out  of  the  door.  I've  got  to  navi- 
gate the  cutting  in  two  acts." 

Murray  disappeared.  Randal  wrapped  the 
reins  twice  round  his  wrists,  and  took  hold  with 
fingers  taut  as  Harveyised  steel.  With  his 
nerve  in  his  hands  and  eyes  he  wrenched  the 
team  sharp  to  the  left,  and  braced  himself  be- 
tween upright  and  foot  guard  as  the  coach 
took  the  curve  on  one  wheel.  Great  cliffs  shot 
up  overhead.  Beneath  the- mare's  feet  spurned 
shingle  rattled  down  to  far  hurry  of  water. 
The  clay  bottom  was  greasy  with  recent  rains, 
and  the  boat-ribbed  demon  lost  footing, 
floundering  ten  yards  with  his  weight  on  the 
man  on  the  box.  He  recovered  at  a  vein  of 
scoria,  with  his  nose  in  the  manuka  edging  the 
cutting,  and  Randal  felt  his  sinews  crack  as 
he  bore  with  both  arms  to  the  leftward  still. 

Curve  and  curve  and  curve ;  with  ever  a  nine- 
foot  track,  and  the  grade  of  one  in  five;  and 
ever  the  unchecked  gallop,  and  the  sway  of  the 
clumsy  coach.  The  wash  of  the  water  talked 
louder,  swept  up,  and  ran  low  through  the 
wheels.  Across  the  half-dried  river  bed,  foul 
with  broken  trees  and  sand  spits  and  sharp 
rocks  that  struck  back  fire  to  fire,  Randal  fol- 
lowed the  ford  as  he  might.  Each  day  he  took 
it  at  a  paced  trot.  He  had  not  passed  it  be- 
fore on  a  hurricane.  The  cutting  beyond  was 
rotten  and  the  underway  patched.  Randal 
knew  each  of  the  white  sign  posts  of  warning 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    200 

that  reeled  away  like  drunken  men.  He  held 
the  path  grimly;  his  eyes  fastened  on  the 
writhe  of  the  grade  under  the  quivering  lamp- 
light, and  every  sense  answering  in  trained 
skill  to  the  need. 

The  team  breasted  the  top;  unbeaten,  un- 
distressed  and  game.  The  macadam  rolled 
through  a  green  tableland  where  waked  sheep 
and  cattle  fed  in  the  long  vernal  scented  grass. 
And  here  Randal  dropped  his  hands  and 
crouched.  For  the  strain  had  been  very 
cruel,  and  the  blood-letting  had  weakened  his 

grip- 
Murray's  voice  came  through  the  window. 
"Are  you  in  charge  yet,  Randal?" 
"Yes^-think  I've  got  them  under.    How's 

Art?" 

"Blest  if  I  can  make  him  out.    I  believe  the 

young  beggar  is  kidding  us.    He's  absolutely 

happy  down  there,  singing  Army  hymns " 

"What!      Do    you    think    he's    all    right, 

Murray?    Do  you  think  he's  all  right?" 

The  ring  in  the  voice  called  many  things  to 

Murray's  memory. 

"I'd  lay  good  long  odds  on  it,"  he  said. 
"Then  I  wish  to  goodness  you  could  get  him 

through  there,  and  hang  on  to  the  strings  while 

I  come  in  and  wallop  him,  Murray." 
Murray  grinned. 

"Pity  to  disturb  him — listen " 

Above  the  uneven  nervous  gait  whereby 


210    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal  held  the  four  together  with  delicate 
touch,  Art  Scannell  was  talking  in  a  virile 
Saxon  speech  that  brought  laughter  to  both 
who  heard. 

"Randal,  he's  standing  up — going  to  de- 
liver his  testimony.  Go  steady — pity  to  lose 
this." 

The  two  giggled  with  an  hysterical  clutch  at 
their  throats.  For  pity  and  disgust  marched 
with  laughter  at  the  delirious  ribaldry  of  the 
boy's  talk.  The  off-wheel  lifted  on  a  tussock, 
and  the  babble  broke  with  a  snap. 

"Short-circuited  him  that  time,"  said  Mur- 
ray at  the  window.  "He's  under  the  seat " 

The  clap  of  the  door  came  on  the  words,  and 
Murray's  shout: 

"Randal!  He's  out!  Randal!  Stop,  for 
the  Lord's  sake!" 

Randal's  start  scared  the  team.  It  plunged, 
reached  on  the  reins,  and  in  that  instant  some- 
thing swarmed  up  the  wheel  as  a  gorilla  might 
have  done,  and  fastened  on  Randal's  shoulders, 
jerking  him  back  to  meet  hot  breath  on  his 
cheek. 

"I've  come  up  to  drive,"  said  Art  Scannell, 
with  quick  lissom  fingers  sliding  to  the  reins. 
"Give  'em  to  me,  Randal.  Curse  you!  Give 
'em  up " 

By  the  cut  of  the  wind  past  his  ear,  and  the 
spring  that  assuredly  loosened  his  wrists  in 
iheir  sockets,  Randal  guessed  at  the  payment 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     211 

that  should  be  required  for  Murray's  careless- 
ness. 

He  jammed  down  the  brake;  gripped  up  the 
reins  in  one  hand,  and  fought  for  his  own  life 
and  the  boy's  as  best  he  might. 

And  something  in  the  back  of  his  head  was 
saying: 

"D Murray!  I  wish  he  was  in  behind 

there  to  take  it  with  us." 

The  team  ripped  over  the  saddle  with  the 
coach  rocking,  and  Randal  guarding  the  reins, 
half  choked,  and  very  nearly  mad  with  pain 
at  the  opening  wound  on  his  chest.  Art  Scan- 
nell  was  kneeling  on  the  box  with  his  dark  boy 
face  level  with  Randal's.  The  thick-lashed 
eyes  and  straight  features  were  cruelly  like 
Effie's,  and  the  words  on  his  mouth  were  such 
as  sickened  Randal.  The  boy's  hands  shut 
over  Randal's,  and  the  whole  weight  of  his 
body  lay  across  the  taut  arms.  Randal  felt 
the  team  check,  swing  to  the  strain,  and  heard 
the  sob  of  soft  grass  cut  under  the  hoofs.  His 
hands  slid,  snatched,  held  again;  and  he  came 
to  the  box  bottom  with  Art.  Here  they  fought, 
with  Randal  doubled  sideways,  and  the  hand- 
ling of  the  reins  his  yet,  though  control  had 
gone  this  long  time  past.  Art  Scannell's  arms 
were  warmly  close  about  him,  and  the  smooth 
cheek  rubbing  Randal's  was  torture.  He 
crushed  the  boy  down,  kneeling  on  him,  forcing 
him  with  all  his  gasping  strength;  and  round 


212    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

him,  and  overhead,  rose  up  the  ghost  country, 
haggard,  void  and  unending.  Under  him  Art 
Scannell  struggled,  cursing,  and  scratching  as 
a  weka  scratches  with  spurred  wings  and  feet. 
Dead  trees  reeled  past,  white  stripes  on  the 
broad  back  of  night,  with  long  shaggy  moss 
blowing  from  them  like  a  beard  on  the  chin 
of  Death. 

"That  is  a  dead  man  calling  me  across  the 
distance,"  said  Randal,  speaking  without  voli- 
tion, for  sense  told  him  that  it  was  a  mo-poke 
frightened  by  the  gallopping  hoofs. 

Beneath  his  knees  Art  Scannell  was  still, 
and  a  fear  colder  than  death  took  him  by  the 
heart  strings.  He  half  rose.  And  then  Art 
Scannell  caught  him  about  the  middle,  and  the 
reins  were  gripped  in  his  white  young  teeth. 
The  bleared  trees  drew  in,  right  and  left; 
plunged  at  Randal,  and  held  him  fast.  This 
was  Death,  with  a  tearing  pain  in  the  sinews, 
and  that  dead  man  calling  as  a  bird  calls  in 
the  middle  of  the  night. 

A  sentence  struck  him  from  no  given  place 
as  the  leaders  rammed  a  tree  butt  and  turned 
the  coach  over.  It  was  curt,  and  very  intense, 
and  it  never  came  out  of  the  Prayer  Book. 
But  it  brought  Randal  to  his  feet. 

"By ,  Murray!"  he  said,  "have  you  been 

there  aU  the  time?  Where's  Art?" 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is,"  said  Murray, 
watching  the  wheelers  kick  the  fore-carriage 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    213 

into  excellent  firewood.  "But  I  very  sincerely 
hope  he's  had  his  neck  broken.  Didn't 
you  hear  me  trying  to  get  through  the 
window?" 

"This  is  a  short  cut  into  Three  Corners," 
said  Art  Scannell,  coming  out  of  a  bank  of 
bracken  with  scratches  blood-lined  across  his 
cheek.  "Come  along  down,  you  two,  and  have 
a  nip.  I'll  shout." 

Murray  fell  on  a  white  tree  bole  and  rocked 
with  laughter. 

"I'll  bet  you  will,  my  innocent.  Just  wait 
till  Randal  gets  his  hands  on  you " 

"Just  put  your  back  into  this,  and  shut  up," 
said  Randal,  in  vivid  command;  and  Murray 
went  where  the  noise  of  straining  leather  and 
burst  wood  was  calling.  Randal  loosed  the 
four,  and  slashed  at  the  latest  with  a  curse. 

"They'll  go  home,"  he  said,  "and  Conroy 
will  have  to  send  an  engine  or  firestick  for 
the  coach.  Come  on.  I've  got  to  hunt  up  a 
horse  to  get  back  with." 

"Couldn't  you  have  ridden " 

"No,  thanks.  Nor  could  you.  I  know  those 
four.  Besides " 

He  staggered  a  little,  pulled  himself  up,  and 
trudged  forward.  Art  Scannell  followed, 
singing  after  his  kind,  and  Murray  tailed  in 
the  rear,  marvelling  that  he  did  not  slay  young 
Art  and  bury  him  in  a  decayed  log. 

The  angels  had  strung  all  their  diamond 


214    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

necklaces  across  the  purple  velvet  of  the  sky; 
and  their  pure  breath  was  in  the  night  air,  and 
the  shadow  of  their  wings  on  the  far  hills. 
Randal  stumbled  between  the  shed  pits  of  the 
matai  trunks  and  the  long  slivers  of  ribbon- 
wood  bark;  climbed  a  wire  fence;  crossed  a 
paddock  with  bog  and  a  smell  of  pigs,  and 
came  to  anchor  before  the  Three  Corners 
Hotel.  Murray,  closing  up,  saw  the  horrible 
white  of  his  face  under  the  kerosene  lamp  hung 
out  for  the  2  a.  m.  train.  He  caught  at  the 
shoulder  that  swayed,  as  Art  Scannell  passed 
to  the  bar  whistling. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?  Randal, 
you  owl,  you're  hurt " 

Randal  was  assured  that  his  words  came 
through  a  thick  blanket. 

"How — how's  Art?"  he  asked,  for  the  third 
time. 

"Art,"  said  Murray,  distinctly,  "was  very 
drunk  to-night,  and  tried  a  game  on.  He's 
gone  into  the  bar  to  get  drunk  again;  but  if 
he  tries  any  more  games,  I'll  know  why.  Now, 
come  in  here,  Randal,  and  let's  see  what  is 
wrong." 

Within  the  two  ends  of  a  half-hour  Randal 
had  quarrelled  with  Wallace  of  the  hotel,  with 
Murray,  and  with  the  three  men  who  had 
turned  up  at  the  siding  for  the  train.  For  he 
sat  on  the  horse-hair  sofa  with  twenty-one 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    215 

yards  of  bandage  rolled  round  his  body  by 
Murray,  and  defied  them. 

"You  can  talk  till  you're  black,"  he  said. 
"I've  got  to  get  back  by  seven.  I've  got  to 
bring  the  coach  down  for  the  midday." 

Art  Scannell  swung  his  legs  from  the  table 
edge  where  he  was  nursing  a  half -glass  of 
brandy. 

"I'll  drive  you  both  back,  and  no  questions 
asked,"  he  suggested.  "Though  mind  you,  I 
do  consider  it  jolly  cheek  of  you  both  to 
bring  me  down  here  just  to  watch  Randal 
bleed." 

Murray  felt  in  his  pockets. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "you  had  two  emetics 
before  you  left  Argyle,  and  you'll  have  another 
if  you  don't  take  a  reef  in  that  tongue  of  yours. 
Can  you  keep  him  here  till  midday,  Wallace, 
and  I'll  drive  Randal  back  if  he's  beyond  per- 
suasion?" 

"I've  got  to  take  the  seven  coach  down,"  said 
Randal,  and  came  to  his  feet  to  clinch  the 
matter. 

Wallace  provided  his  little  trotter  and  a  gig; 
and  Randal  made  no  complaint  when  they 
bumped  over  a  broken  culvert  in  the  dark  hour 
that  goes  before  all  sunlight.  For  the  second 
time  that  night  Murray  forgot  the  creeping 
things  that  dogged  him. 

"You'll  be  in  a  fine  state  by  the  time  those 
horses  have  pulled  you  about  all  to-day,"  he 


216    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

said.  "Why  don't  you  take  it  easy,  man,  and 
let  someone  else  have  a  buck  at  them?" 

"I  told  Conroy  I'd  be  back.  I  don't  break 
my  word  if — if  I  can  help  it." 

"Well,  you  can't  help  this.     You- 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  said  Randal,  roughly.  "Do 
you  think  I'd  take  it  on  if  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  peter  out  and  mess  things  up?  A 
man  knows  what  he  can  do,  and  what  he  can't. 
Or  if  he  doesn't  he  ought  to." 

To  the  break  in  his  voice  Murray  gave  a 
pitiful  silence,  and  slowly  the  day  came:  not 
flushing  with  girlish  shyness  as  she  comes  to 
dimpled  valleys  and  homesteads,  but  standing 
grave  and  beautiful  on  the  mountains,  to  press 
wreaths  of  blood-red  thorns  down  on  their 
snow,  and  to  fling  her  great  javelins  of  light 
from  pinnacle  to  jagged  scarp  and  bowed 
bared  shoulder  of  flint. 

The  tussock  deeps  either  side  the  saddle  lay 
naked  as  an  unseen  hand  swept  the  white  mists 
out  of  them,  and  the  very  faint  sound  of  sheep 
cropping  grass  came  up  through  the  new-made 
air.  And  the  sunlight  burst  up  the  gullies, 
and  along  the  hundred-foot  river  banks,  strik- 
ing their  clay  to  beaten  bronze,  and  chasing  a 
riot  of  onyx  and  jasper  and  hyacinth-blue 
from  bluff  up  to  reaching  bluff  until  all  the 
western  sky  was  laughing  with  it. 

Murray  pulled  slow  for  the  ford,  and  a  little 
black-and-white  stilt  darted  away  from  under 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    217 

a  niggerhead,  its  red  legs  flashing  in  the 
light. 

"A  new  day  is  as  solemn  a  thing  to  see  as  a 
new  soul,"  said  Murray,  then. 

Randal  laughed  in  one  syllable. 

"The  solemn  thing,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  soul 
that  will  never  be  new  any  more.  But  you  see 
them  every  day." 

"I  don't,"  said  Murray,  taking  his  lungs  full 
of  scent-flooded  air,  as  they  rose  the  cutting 
beyond  through  gold  and  pearl  of  the  flower- 
ing broom. 

"You  could  if  you  looked,"  said  Randal, 
carelessly.  "How  does  time  go?" 

"Just  six.    Feeling  very  fagged,  eh?" 

"No,  I'm  all  right,  thanks.  Lick  him  up  a 
bit  along  here,  can't  you?" 

"Don't  you  fret.    I'll  be  up  to  time." 

But  with  the  flat  daylight  on  the  familiar 
things  again  Murray's  torture  woke  and  ran 
behind  him,  and  neither  man  was  speaking 
when  the  gig  swung  into  the  alleyway,  and 
Conroy  came  out  and  asked  questions. 

Murray  explained  seven  things  in  one  sen- 
tence. Then  Conroy  said: 

"You  got  ten  minutes  ter  have  a  feed  and 
a  nip  in,  Randal;  and  then  for  Heaven's  sake, 
take  'em  if  you  can.  I  haven't  got  another  man 
can  handle  that  team  wi'out  makin'  a  blamed 
mess  o'  things." 

"Keep  your  hair  on.     I'm  going  to  take 


218    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

them.  Did — anyone  send  word  up  to 
Mains?" 

"No.  We  waited  ter  hear  the  end  of  it — 
knowin'  young  Art.  He  do  have  his  own  idea 
of  a  joke." 

Randal  was  on  the  box-seat  as  the  men 
brought  the  team  out  to  the  street.  He  was 
crumpled,  and  tired — tired — until  he  could  not 
remember  a  time  when  he  was  not  tired.  Then 
the  jar  of  wheels  was  close  on  him;  Effie  Scan- 
nell  pulled  in  the  bay  cob  with  a  turn  of  her 
wrist,  and  tossed  the  reins  to  the  groom  be- 
side her.  There  were  boxes  in  the  back  of  the 
cart.  Randal  saw  them  in  one  swift  eye-flash. 
But  he  did  not  look  again  until  it  was  necessary 
to  stoop  over  and  bring  her  up  to  the  seat  by 
the  hand.  The  pressure  in  the  meeting  grip 
was  hers  only,  and  she  said  underbreath: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Kiliat's  voice  sounded  at  the  wheel. 

"You  going  down  too,  Miss  Effie?  Oh,  I 
say!  I  don't  deserve  such  luck,  you  know." 

Effiie  leant  over,  speaking  with  quick  little 
ripples  of  laughter  as  pole-straps  and  traces 
met  buckled,  and  the  mail  bags  were  flung  up 
to  Randal.  Behind,  a  heavy-footed  woman 
and  two  complaining  children  made  the  body 
of  the  coach  shake.  The  horses  stirred  im- 
patiently with  the  freshness  of  the  morning 
blowing  on  them,  and  yet  Kiliat  talked  by  the 
wheel  to  Effie. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    219 

The  quick  twist  of  a  grin  was  on  Randal's 
mouth.  He  caught  the  heavy  reins  where  they 
spun  to  him,  and  the  brake  flew  up  as  the  horses 
leapt  as  one. 

Kiliat  passed  behind  with  a  shout  and  a 
quick  scramble  that  brought  him  to  his  knees 
in  the  coach-bottom.  Randal  cut  the  leaders 
with  the  lash,  thanking  Heaven  that  the  coach 
carried  no  window. 

"Say  what  you  want  to  before  we  get  to  the 
bridge,"  he  said.  "I  must  walk  over  that. 
The  offsider  is  too  skittish." 

"You — you  haven't  said  you're  glad  to  see 
me,  yet,  Guy." 

Randal's  deep  breath  was  very  nearly  a 
groan. 

"Does  a  man  go  about  saying  he  is  glad  to 
be  alive?  What  can  I  tell  you  that  you  don't 
know,  Effie?" 

Her  hand  was  on  his  left  arm,  and  her  face 
was  close  to  his  shoulder,  as  Art's  had  been 
so  few  hours  ago. 

"Tell  me  that  you're  not  forgetting  me, 
Guy." 

"Effie — don't!  Dear,  you  don't  know  how 
cruel  you  are  to  me  sometimes.  I — wouldn't 
ask  you  that." 

"I'm  going  to  test  you,  Guy.  I'm  going 
away.  For  months ;  I  don't  know  how  many." 

"Where?" 

"The  North  Island — Sydney — Melbourne. 


220    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

I'm  going  with  Mr.  Kiliat's  mother  and 
sister." 

Randal  took  the  turn  to  the  coach  bridge 
with  absolute  precision.  Then  he  said : 

"Have  you  anything  else  to  tell  me?" 

Then  the  tears  came,  and  she  caught  the 
lapels  of  his  coat  with  a  little  sob. 

"Guy!  Guy!  I  don't  want  to  go!  Oh 
dearest,  don't  you  understand  that — that  they 
are  sending  me  away,  Guy?" 

"I  understand.  They  are  sending  you  away 
from  me,  Effie.  And — it  is  better  that  you 
should  go." 

"It  won't  make  any  difference.  I  shall  come 
back.  You — you'll  wait  here  for  me,  Guy?" 

Randal  stooped  over  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips. 

"I  will  wait,"  he  said. 

Then  he  drew  rein  on  the  bridge  planking, 
and  apologised  to  Kiliat  when  he  came  round 
to  the  wheel  in  white  wrath. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"LOOKS  like  ole  Joe  Page  ev'ry  time,"  said 
Moody. 

Danny  spanked  a  hogget  forward  by  appli- 
cation of  the  draughting  gate,  and  smudged 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead. 

"It  don't  look  like  him,  yer  idjit,"  he  said 
explosively.  "It  is  him.  Now  you  just  hook 
it,  Joe.  I  ain't  goin'  ter  be  done  wi'  these 
pants  'fore  shearin's  over.  An'  there  won't 
be  anythin'  but  the  equivocating  buttings  lef ' 
then." 

Joe  was  a  password  in  the  district  sheds. 
He  cadged  a  coat  here,  a  pair  of  boots  some- 
where else,  and  cast  dungarees  and  old  hats 
by  the  score.  He  hooked  his  arms  over  the 
rail  and  smiled  blandly. 

"Yer '11  kip  the  buttons  fur  me,  anyways, 
Danny,"  he  suggested. 

"I'm  makin'  them  inter  a  teething  necklace 
fur  me  sister's  baby,"  said  Danny,  stolidly. 
"Go  an'  ring  yer  little  game  onter  Lou." 

Further  down  the  heat  of  the  sun-swept  race 
Lou  was  hustling  sheep  with  his  cap,  with  a 

manuka  bough,  with  sharp  whistles,  and  the 

221 


power  of  his  fore-bent  knees.  Above  the  noise 
and  hurry  of  the  draughting  yards,  and  above 
the  yap-yap  of  Danny's  blue  Smithfield  by  his 
foot,  he  heard  and  gave  answer. 

"Cut  along  into  the  shed,  Joe,  and  ask  for 
Mogger.  You'll  find  him  on  the  presses.  He's 
always  got  things  to  spare." 

"Joe— don't  yer  go  ter  do "  But  a  ram 

slewed  the  gate  over  with  his  horn,  and  Danny 
plunged  into  the  tideway,  vivid-speeched  and 
alert,  to  turn  the  river  that  set  awry  to  the 
yards. 

All  the  glory  of  summer  was  over  Mains, 
on  the  hills  and  the  bush-dark  gullies.  All  the 
savage  glare  and  heat  of  it  was  over  the  yards 
where  sheep  cried  and  coughed,  and  shook  the 
rails  with  the  soft  weight  of  their  bodies;  and 
where  dogs  were  thick  underfoot,  noisy,  clever 
and  keen;  obedient  ever  to  the  quick  whistle, 
to  the  shout  through  the  dust,  and  to  the 
swerve  of  an  up-flung  hand.  The  races  roared 
with  choked  life;  the  three  draughting  gates 
throbbed  back  and  forth  under  power  of  quick 
eye  and  quick  brain  and  quick  hand.  The  dust 
was  dry  in  each  man's  throat,  and  the  grit  of 
it  between  his  teeth.  And  all  the  welter  of 
sound  and  ruled  haste  and  heat  did  not  shake 
the  compass  point  that  he  steered  by.  For  a 
Colonial  learns  by  doing,  and  by  doing  again ; 
and  this  is  the  only  true  way  to  get  technical 
skill. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    223 

The  last  ram  butted  Danny  on  the  hip,  so 
that  he  sent  a  kick  after  him  as  the  gate  swung 
idle.  Then  he  sat  on  the  rail  to  charge  his  pipe 
while  Moody  swept  six  more  down  the  paddock 
to  round  up  another  mob. 

"Yer  a  fair  skunk,  Lou,"  he  said. 

Lou  cut  tobacco  slowly.  The  grease  and 
dirt  of  sheep  were  on  his  bared  arms  and  his 
shirt,  and  his  boots  were  burst  at  the  toes.  But 
still  there  was  something  in  the  carriage  of  his 
head  that  would  turn  women  and  not  a  few 
men  to  look  at  him  twice. 

"Old  Joe'll  strike  a  snag  in  Mogger — .unless 
he's  wanting  ribbons,"  he  said. 

"I  'opes  as  Mogger'll  do  some  strikin'  'fore 
long,"  said  Danny,  with  feeling,  and  took  six 
sets  of  rails  and  a  gate  in  answer  to  Steve's 
howl  from  the  filling  pens. 

He  snatched  a  gum  stick  from  somewhere, 
dived  into  the  ruck,  and  hammered  the 
stumbling  bodies  up  the  grating  to  the  bowels 
of  the  shed.  Here  new  sounds  and  new 
stenches  held  sway:  the  rasp  of  the  presses 
forward,  the  mutter  of  the  shears,  the  hundred 
other  noises  pent  in  by  the  dark  of  iron  roof 
that  creaked  in  the  grasp  of  the  sun  rays. 

There  was  smell  of  the  tar-pot,  and  of  sheep, 
and  of  heated  men ;  and  the  strange  oily  scent 
of  a  well-yoked  fleece.  Danny  slammed  the 
gate  behind  the  last  straggler  and  made  out 
for  air,  past  the  length  of  the  board  where 


224    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  men  stopped  dripping,  and  the  fleecies 
swooped  and  circled  like  gulls. 

"I've  filled  up  wi'  a  entrancin'  lot  o'  smell- 
ers this  go,  Creash,"  he  said.  "Come  off  of  the 
Pinetop  where  we  bin  cultivatin'  Calif ornian 
thistle,  they  did." 

Creash  grinned,  turning  his  sheep  over. 

"Takes  the  all  of  a  sewin'  needle  to  git 
through  my  hide.  Go  an'  tell  Luttrell.  He's 
soft." 

But  Ted  Douglas  was  telling  Luttrell 
things  at  that  instant.  And  Danny  paused, 
smelling  trouble.  For  he  knew  Luttrell's 
tongue,  and  he  knew  that  "back-talk"  was  no 
tender  to  the  shed  boss  on  Mains. 

"When  I'm  wantin'  your  biography  I'll  ask 
fur  it,"  said  Ted,  with  his  hands  deep  in  his 
coat  pockets.  "I  don't  care  what  you  did  in 
Orstralyer.  A  man  who  can't  shear  his  two 
hundred  there  is  a  fool.  But  the  man  what 
does  more  than  his  one  hundred  here — on  these 
sheep — he's  goin'  to  git  fired,  an'  don't  you 
forgit  it.  We  ain't  over-keen  on  seein'  fancy 
wool  work  under  the  Mains  brand." 

"Crewel  work  is  the  belligerent  name  fur  it," 
suggested  Danny;  and  Scott  shouted  from  the 
loft: 

"Are  he  wantin'  a  cork  ter  his  shear  p'ints, 
Ted?" 

"Not  so  much  as  you're  wantin'  it  in  your 
mouth,"  returned  Ted,  sharply. 


Luttrell's  great  buck  teeth  showed  under 
the  ragged  moustache,  and  his  hands  shook 
on  the  idle  shears.  But  the  steady  eyes  and 
voice  broke  him  down.  He  swerved  sullenly 
into  the  pen,  dragged  out  his  sheep,  and 
opened  up  with  the  clean  clever  blow  of  the 
ringer.  Danny  grunted  approval. 

"The  ole  apostrophe!"  he  said.  "He'd 
'a'  had  the  head  off  of  anyone  else  as  blocked 
him.  But  there  ain't  much  leakin'  on  Mains 
wi'  you  at  the  sluices,  Ted." 

Ted  gave  no  answer.  He  passed  the  tables 
with  quick  commanding  sight  on  the  wool  bins, 
the  branders,  the  hurrying  fleecies,  and  the 
men  that  wrought  with  the  presses  and  bales. 
At  end  of  the  south  board  he  stood,  and  each 
shearer  felt  him  there  on  the  instant.  Ted 
knew  that  they  felt  him,  and  the  apple  of  his 
throat  ached  in  sudden  pain.  For  not  Steve 
nor  another  was  fitted  to  take  his  place  in  the 
shed,  on  the  cattle  camps,  on  the  ranges  in 
the  mustering  season.  And  yet,  for  Jimmie, 
he  would  leave  Mains  to  fall  or  to  fight  ac- 
cording to  the  wisdom  of  Steve  or  another. 
Because  this  much  is  true  of  men  all  the  world 
through:  they  give  hand-and-lip  service  to 
a  superior;  but  only  to  a  leader  of  their  class 
will  they  give  thew-and-body  service  to  the 
utmost.  Scannell  knew  this  when  he  laid 
power  on  Ted's  shoulders ;  and  Ted  knew. 

"On'y  fur  Jimmie,"  he  said  underbreath. 


226    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"I  can't  help  it  if  there  ain't  another  chap  fit — 
Baxter!" 

Danny  heard  the  shout  where  he  was 
draining  a  half-dozen  pannikins  by  the  big 
doors. 

"Ted  ain't  sweet  ter-day,"  he  remarked,  rub- 
bing against  a  new-branded  bale.  "Did  Joe 
come  askin'  him  fur  handkerchees  an'  hair-ile 
an'  things,  Ike?" 

"Joe  ast  me,"  said  Mogger,  with  his  weight 
on  the  bale  hook,  and  the  muscles  outsprung 
on  his  forehead.  "He  said  as  Lou  tole  him 
ter." 

Scott  grinned,  jerking  a  thread  from  the 
twine  hank. 

"The  game  ain't  ter  the  dealer  this  time, 
though,"  he  said. 

"What'd  yer  do,  Mog?"  Danny  slung 
down  the  last  pannikin,  and  stood  upright. 

"Jes*  guv  him  Lou's  coat.  He  lef  it  here 
last  'Spell-o,'  "  said  Mogger,  composedly,  and 
tumbled  the  bale  into  the  brander's  hands. 

Danny  fell  over  in  abandonment  of  joy  and 
giggled  until  the  brander — who  happened  to 
be  Scott — saw  the  smudged  "First  Combing," 
and  tracked  the  final  "g"  to  Danny's  left  shoul- 
der. Thereafter,  Danny  went  out  headlong 
on  the  mass  of  sweepings  drawn  from  the  shed ; 
picked  himself  up,  and  returned  to  the  little 
gates  in  a  kindly  tenderness  that  puzzled  Lou 
until  he  came  for  his  coat  after  the  night's  cut- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    227 

out.  This  was  long  past  the  meal  hour,  for 
the  work  of  the  station  hands  does  not  snap 
with  the  shearer's  bell;  and  thirty-seven  men 
lay  round  the  whares  where  the  grass  was 
tramped  dust,  or  scattered  down  the  long  pad- 
dock in  the  dusk  with  the  ring  of  quoits  to 
mark  them.  Lou  satisfied  his  hunger.  Then 
he  came  out  and  satisfied  Mogger,  and,  in- 
cidentally, Tod  and  several  more.  Tod  was 
full  fed  with  happiness,  for  a  mixed  crowd  was 
incense  in  his  nostrils.  He  flung  his  vitriol 
dispassionately,  while  Mogger  sat  with  out- 
stretched legs  in  the  dust,  and  told  passers-by 
that  "It  was  wuth  it." 

"Not  as  Lou's  fists  dun't  git  home  quick  as 
his  tongue  most  times,"  he  explained;  "but  it 
was  wuth  it.  A  reel  good  coat,  an'  no  error. 
Joe  called  me  a  pattron,  too.  That  means  a 
banefactor  ter  Society." 

"It  don't,"  said  Danny,  whom  Suse  had 
initiated  in  several  mysteries.  "It  means  a 
thing  as  gels  cuts  their  frocks  on.  Joe  were 
pullin'  yer  leg,  Mogger." 

"I'd  be  a  good  pattron  fur  a  gel  ter  cut  a 
husbin'  on,  then,"  said  Mogger,  stretching 
himself.  "Yer  tell  that  ter  Suse,  Danny,  sup- 
posin'  she's  wantin'  ter  change  'er  mind  'fore 
it's  too  late." 

"Arrah,  bedad,  it's  only  colleens  loike  Miss 
Effie  has  the  sinse  to  do  that,"  remarked  Tod. 
"It's  on  wid  Kiliat,  all  roight,  now,  an'  off  wid 


228     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Randal — more  be  token  as  he's  shankin'  down- 
hill wid  all  the  power  lef '  to  him." 

"Randal  was  allers  a  fool,"  said  Scott,  fall- 
ing out  of  a  dispute  that  had  been  over-hot. 
"He's  workin'  a  hatter's  claim  up  Chinaman's 
Gully  now,  and  gittin'  his  washups  from  the 
Lion  drainage.  Makes  a  colour  p'raps  once 
in  four  days,  he  does.  A  fine  sort  o'  life,  that." 

Someone  spoke  above  the  murmur  of  voices 
where  the  tobacco  clouds  hung  on  the  dusk. 

"Oh,  go  it!  We're  mighty  ready  to  jump 
on  a  man  for  goin'  lame.  Suppose  you  hunt 
round  for  the  last  his  boot  was  made  on,  next 
time." 

"It's  wise  ye  are,"  said  Tod,  dryly.  "We 
buys  thim  ready-made,  me  bosthoon;  an*  wan 
lasht  does  for  the  lot — until  it  is  worn  out. 
Bhut  it  does  not  pinch  us  all." 

Ted  Douglas  smoked  slowly. 

"You  allers  talk  clever  when  you're  not 
meanin'  it,  Tod,"  he  said.  "Till  our  feet  is 
all  made  on  one  last,  too,  I  reckin  there'll 
gene'ly  be  some  on  us  goin'  lame." 

A  Queenslander  sat  up  with  a  crackle  of 
the  brushwood  stack  at  his  foot. 

"There's  a  time  comin'  when  we'll  make  our 
own  bloomin'  lasts  an'  our  own  bloomin'  laws," 
he  said.  "No  ready-made  foolery.  We  won't 
hev  no  corns  then." 

Danny  rolled  over,  and  pulled  the  accordeon 
toward  him. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     229 

"Belike  we  won't  hev  no  boots  nayther,  yer 
contagious  yard  o'  shingle!  Paddy,  cut  along 
in  an'  tell  Lou  as  the  audience  is  requestin'  him 
ter  come  an'  oblige  wi'  'The  Ole  Bullock 
Dray.' ' 

In  the  close  dark  of  the  eating-whare  where 
the  cook  and  the  slushy  juggled  with  tin  plates 
and  dirty  water,  Lou  was  drawing  a  three- 
shed  cheque  from  young  Benson  by  power  of 
five  cards  and  some  science.  He  retired  Paddy 
with  direct  insult,  and  the  quoit  players  came 
back  to  raise  choruses  and  to  fling  uncurbed 
jokes  that  angered  Ted  Douglas.  He  got  to 
his  feet,  speaking  curtly: 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  the  river  downs  arter  keas. 
Any  on  you  comin'  along?" 

Ike  stifled  a  yawn  and  raised  himself  by 
sections.  He  was  bone-weary,  as  every  hand 
on  Mains  had  a  right  to  be.  But  when  a  man 
does  not  give  jealousy  he  usually  gives  adora- 
tion to  the  other  of  his  own  age  and  rank  who 
has  distanced  him. 

"I  am,  Ted.    Wait  till  I  gits  my  gun." 

Steve  had  seen  Ike  sluicing  the  rust  out  of 
his  old  single-barrel  the  evening  before,  and  he 
growled  distinct  warning  until  the  tread  of  feet 
ceased  to  echo  on  the  warm  earth  where  he 
lay. 

Past  the  woolshed  gates  the  two  fell  on 
Scannell  with  his  clever  little  303  in  his  arm- 
pit. Not  age  nor  sorrow  of  soul  could  kill 


230    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  sportsman  in  Scannell,  and  he  stepped  it 
alertly;  through  manuka  and  tawhina  scrub, 
round  the  swamp  head,  and  up  the  tussock 
terraces  beyond. 

The  dew  had  loosed  scent  on  the  still  air. 
Scent  of  tussock  and  languid-sweet  manuka 
bloom;  of  bush  in  far-below  gullies,  and  cow 
breath  and  subtle  smells  from  the  flax  and  the 
faint  evening  primrose.  To  the  westing  the 
long,  long  afterglow  quivered  still  in  pale 
gold,  and  the  rush  of  the  river  round  the 
terrace  foot  sounded  clear  and  serene.  Ted 
was  not  speaking,  for  the  calm  of  the  night 
was  steadying  his  soul  against  what  should  be. 
Ike  listened,  sharp-eared,  for  the  kea  call, 
and  whistled  out  the  answer  gladly  when 
sound  caught  them  on  the  lip  of  the  first 
slope. 

They  dropped  over  it  as  one,  and  unshorn 
ewes  blundered  away  at  their  coming.  But  a 
dark  heap  lay  on  the  breast  of  the  tussock 
with  a  picnic  party  atop. 

The  party  cursed  in  parrot  jabber;  drew 
off  five  paces,  and  cursed  again.  Guns  spoke 
thrice  with  red  fire.  Then  Ted  came  on  his 
knee,  feeling  over  the  bloody  wool  for  the  kid- 
neys that  yet  were  warm. 

"There's  life  enough  in  the  blood  to  pull  the 
p'ison  through  it,"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to 
work  straightway. 

Ike    nosed    his    way    forward    carefully, 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     231 

cuddling  his  old  gun  and  walking  the  lean 
sheep  track  in  the  half  light  with  the  snarl  of 
shingle  on  rocks  straight  below.  Ted  stood 
up,  cleansed  his  hands  in  the  tussock  spines, 
and  said: 

"That  makes  the  hundred,  sir." 

Scannell  kicked  at  a  fallen  flutter  of  green 
and  red  feathers. 

"Brutes!"  he  said.  "They're  hanging  about 
late  this  year.  We  must  work  'em  systematic- 
ally when  shearing's  done,  Ted." 

Ted's  hand  gripped  on  his  rifle.  He  spoke 
very  low. 

'  'Fraid  you'll  hev  to  git  someone  else  to 
run  that  game.  I — want  to  leave  arter 
shearin's  done." 

"Leave!  Leave!  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about.  Leave  Mains!  You 
couldn't  do  it,  Ted." 

"I  wants  ter  leave  after  shearin'."  Scannell 
caught  the  shake  in  the  tone. 

"Are  you  tired  of  the  old  life,  Ted?" 

"No!  You  knows  I  ain't!  But — I  wants 
Iter  go." 

"Why?" 

There  was  a  silence.  The  very  far  murmur 
of  sheep  plucked  at  Ted's  heart  strings.  The 
mighty  head  of  the  Brothers  across  the  river 
and  across  the  lower  hills  called  him  in  every 
grand  curve  of  it  against  the  stars.  At  his 
feet  the  downs  rolled  away;  dimpled,  and  lush 


232     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

with  feed  for  the  sheep  that  he  might  not  con- 
trol at  next  muster. 

"Why,  Ted?" 

"It's  just — Jimmie.  He  might  be  wantin' 
help  somewhere,  an'  I  can  give  it." 

"Jimmie?  Jimmie  Elaine?  Ted,  I  won't 
believe  that  you  are  wanting  to  bring  him  to 
justice!" 

Ted  laughed  just  a  little,  standing  big  and 
still  against  the  stars. 

"Thanky,  sir.  No — Jimmie's  my  mate. 
He's  easily  'feared,  an'  there's  suthin'  on  his 
mind- 

"Quite  likely,"  said  Scannell,  dryly. 

.  .  .  "An'  bein'  a  Carth'lic  he  thinks  a 
powerful  lot  o'  dyin'  unshrived  an'  that  sort 
o'  thing.  It  makes  me  sick  o'  times  ter  think 
what  might  be  happenin'  ter  the  little  chap." 

"He  tried  to  ruin  you,  Ted.  He  would  have 
perjured  himself  to  do  it  if  he  had  had  the 
pluck." 

"I  loves  him,"  said  Ted,  slowly.  "An* 
love's  the  kind  o'  thing  as  yer  can't  let  out 
the  slack  o'  or  wind  it  up  jes'  as  yer  like.  He's 
weak  as  a  girl,  an'  I  loves  him  as  I'll  never 
love  a  girl.  I  must  find  him,  sir." 

Scannell  was  angry  for  the  space  of  five 
minutes.  Then  he  said  something  that  hurt 
Ted  more  than  the  anger. 

"I  thought  you  loved  Mains,  Ted." 

"Don't!    Don't!    You  knows  as  I— I " 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    233 

Scannell's  hand  sought  the  hard  young  one, 
and  gripped  it. 

"I'm  sorry — but  it's  hard  on  me,  too.  I'll 
never  get  another  headman  like  you,  Ted. 
Well — you'll  see  us  through  shearing?" 

"Wouldn't  I  have  gone  a  month  ago  ef  I 
hadn't  meant  that?  Yes,  I'll  wait  till  that  is 
done." 

"Then,"  said  Scannell,  "we  had  better  go 
on.  For  there  is  no  more  to  say," 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"WELL!  but  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Kiliat. 

Ormond  looked  at  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  suppose  you  could. 
You're  not  built  that  way.  But  you  can  back 
me  up  when  your  father  comes  along  to  ask 
questions.  And  I  think  that  he  will  probably 
come  very  soon.  To-day  most  likely." 

"What — what  the  devil  have  you  been 
doing?"  cried  Kiliat,  in  wrath. 

Ormond  was  patching  a  nine-inch  pipe.  The 
pipe  was  red-hot  in  the  sunshine ;  the  plate  was 
hot,  and  the  tap  turned  stickily  in  his  hands. 
He  grovelled  for  a  dropped  bolt  in  the  half- 
dried  clay  of  the  underway,  picked  it  out,  and 
said: 

"I  wrote  telling  him  that  I  meant  to  chuck 
the  whole  thing  if  he  is  not  here  before  Friday. 
And  as  he  knows  you  pretty  well,  I  fancy  that 
he  will  be  here  before  Friday." 

"Chuck  it!  You  can't  chuck  it!  I— I— I— 
can't  run  this  plant,  Ormond." 

Ormond  raised  himself,  rubbing  back  the 
rough  hair  on  his  forehead. 

234 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    235 

"Then  you'd  better  not  go  back  on  me  when 
your  father — which  is  your  father,  Kiliat?" 

They  were  two  stocky  bull-necked  men  who 
stumbled  over  the  heat-hazed  shingle.  From 
top  hat  to  patent  leathers  they  wore  the  gear  of 
town  life,  and  both  were  panting  and  purple 
with  the  labour.  Ormond  jerked  his  trousers 
higher  through  the  belt  strap,  and  straightened 
the  shoulders  under  the  loose  shirt.  His  whole 
body  was  alive  with  fight.  He  had  risked  much 
in  bringing  directors  up  here ;  but  all  the  rotten 
length  of  the  Lion  had  called  him  dumbly  once 
too  often.  He  waited  for  Kiliat's  casual  in- 
troductions; said  just  one  thing  in  his  throat 
when  the  boy  slid  down  into  the  paddock  where 
Gordon  was  working  the  second  jet,  and  met 
the  two  promptly. 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  he  said. 
"You  would  like  to  look  over  the  plant,  of 
course?  And  I  presume  that  you  got  my 
letter?" 

The  other  man — Ormond  knew  him  for  the 
chief  of  the  directors — stared  at  the  sullen  net- 
work of  pipes ;  at  Ormond's  one-roomed  whare 
behind  the  tin  power-house;  at  white-faced 
Roddy  shovelling  the  wash  at  the  box  tail. 

"My  soul!"  he  said.  "What  a  place!  What 
a  ghastly  place  to  live  in!" 

Ormond  had  lived  on  the  Changing  Creek 
seven  years.  He  had  shot  rabbits  in  every 
shingle  gully  that  fed  it,  from  the  penstock 


236    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

right  into  Argyle.  He  knew  it  by  hot  slug- 
gish day,  and  by  perfect  evening,  and  by  fierce 
storm-racked  night.  And,  beyond  all  places 
in  the  wide  earth,  it  was  home  to  him.  Just  a 
little  he  grinned,  resting  a  foot  on  the  main 
pipe.  These  fat  men  would  never  know  the 
Lion. 

"Did  you  get  my  letter?"  he  said  again;  and 
the  life  of  the  Lion  was  throbbing  under  his 
foot. 

Then  Kiliat  the  elder  spoke.  He  told  Or- 
mond  many  things  that  Ormond  knew  far 
better  than  he  did ;  he  complained  of  Ormond's 
contant  demand  for  repairs;  he  desired  ex- 
planation— full  explanation. 

"My  son  says  that  everything  is  in  good 
order.  We  were  given  to  understand  that 
everything  was  in  good  order  when  we  took  the 
claim  over." 

Ormond's  temper  was  waking. 

"I  can't  help  what  you  were  given  to  under- 
stand. It  was  not  in  good  order.  If  your 
son  were  here  as  often  as  a  manager  should  be 
he  might  know  what  he's  talking  about.  The 
flumes  and  trestles  are  rotten.  I'm  eternally 
patching  them.  If  you'll  kindly  come  round 
here,  and  examine  the  pipes  for  the  power- 
house and  the  Pelton  wheel  you  might  see  the 
plugs  in  them.  I  have  given  a  week's  work  to 
each  of  those  pipes  this  year.  Then  the 
jets "  Ormond  wrenched  an  hydraulic  jet 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    237 

out  of  its  elbow  and  rolled  it  forward.  "We 
are  supposed  to  be  doing  hydraulic  work  now, 
and  the  jet  I'm  using  is  the  size  of  this  one." 
He  pulled  out  a  measure  and  laid  it  over  the 
lip.  "Seven  and  three-quarter  inches.  It 
should  be  five  and  a  half.  How  much  pres- 
sure do  you  think  we  lose  when  the  things  are 
worn  to  that  size?" 

Ormond's  flannel  shirt  was  dirty;  it  was 
loose  at  the  sunburnt  neck,  and  his  trousers 
were  tucked  anyhow  into  the  long  boots.  But 
the  two  fat  directors  were  nervous.  The  Lion 
did  not  look  at  all  the  same,  laid  nakedly  here 
on  the  creek  bed  with  a  hard-eyed  man  stand- 
ing over  her  to  crush  them  with  figures.  Or- 
mond  had  an  unpleasantly  virile  grasp  of  his 
subject. 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  chief  of  the  directors. 
"I  daresay  we  can  manage  a  new  jet  for  you. 
But  you  are  asking  for  pipes;  a  quarter-mile 
of  pipes;  twenty-one  foot  pipes  at  six  pounds 
apiece!  We  can't  let  you  have  those,  you 
know.  And  you  got  some  steel  things  without 
consulting  us 

"I  had  to  have  them.  The  plate  topping  the 
lift  pipe  was  nearly  worn  through.  I'd  asked 
you  twice." 

"My  son  said  that  you  had  the  box  too  close 
on  the  escape,"  said  the  elder  Kiliat,  wisely. 

Ormond  bit  off  the  word  that  tingled  his 
tongue. 


238    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Your  son  says  a  good  many  things — to 
others,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Well,  you  see,  that  was  sheer  carelessness. 
We  were  told  you  were  a  fairly  capable  man — 
I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"I  didn't  speak.    Yes?" 

"A  fairly  capable  man,  and — er — a  fairly 
truthful  one.  You  must  give  me  leave  to 
doubt  the  fact  of  your  being  either  the  one  or 
the  other,  Mr.  Ormond." 

"Will  you  kindly  teU  me  why?" 

"Er — -er — you  have  no  right  to  take  that 
tone  with  me,  sir." 

"I'll  show  you  if  I  have  in  a  minute.    Why?" 

"Kiliat,  my  dear  fellow,  perhaps  you  had 
better  let  me  speak 

"I  won't!  Curse  it!  D'you  think  I  can't 
manage  the  man  myself?" 

If  Ormond  had  been  one  whit  less  angry  he 
must  have  laughed.  But  he  stood  unmoving, 
with  a  set  to  his  body  that  caught  Bert  Kiliat's 
idle  attention  and  brought  him  up  over  the  pad- 
dock side  to  hear  his  father  say: 

.  .  .  "And  so  it  is  not  only  your  inces- 
sant and  puerile  demands,  annoying  though 
they  are.  We  shall  require  you  to  give  very 
good  reasons  for  the  extraordinary  falling  off 
in  the  returns 

"Whew!"  whistled  young  Kiliat,  staring  on 
the  three.  "I  say,  pater,  I  told  you  to  go  a  bit 
slow  with  Ormond/' 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     239 

"Hold  your  tongue!  Well,  Mr.  Or- 
mond?" 

"I  can  give  you  several  reasons,"  said  Or- 
mond,  speaking  very  levelly.  "In  the  first 
place  we  have  had  bad  weather  in  the  hills. 
That  breaks  the  race  and  occasions  a  stoppage. 
Twice  since  midwinter  a  flume  has  been  washed 
out  in  a  spate.  Each  time  we  were  near  a  week 
mending  it,  for  we  can't  work  many  hours  in 
the  short  days.  A  great  many  of  the  pipes 
are  worn  out.  I  have  to  be  constantly  chan- 
ging them  for  repairs.  That  all  takes  time. 
Then  we  had  to  run  out  a  tail  race  before  we 
could  come  down  to  work  on  the  flat.  The 
dredges  won't  allow  us  to  deflect  the  creek 
behind  them." 

"The  dredges  can't  stop  you.  You  are  on 
your  own  ground." 

"That's  what  I  told  him,"  said  Bert  Kiliat. 
"But  he  wouldn't  listen.  Nobody  listens  to 
me." 

"The  wash  carries  down  into  their  pad- 
docks," said  Ormond,  controlling  his  words. 
"I  think  I  have  given  sufficient  reasons  to  sat- 
isfy the  ordinary  intelligence.  If  you  want  to 
know  any  more  you  can  ask  the  men.  Now, 
Mr.  Kiliat,  I  have  just  one  thing  to  say  to  you. 
If  you  were  a  younger  man  I'd  have  knocked 
you  down  before  now.  As  it  is,  you  will  please 
take  a  week's  notice  from  me  dating  from  to- 
day. And  I  should  advise  your  son  to  give  a 


240    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

little  more  of  his  time  to  the  claim  during  that 
week.  For  I  shall  do  no  more  work  than  the 
ordinary  overseer.  All  orders  must  come  from 
him  in  future." 

Bert  Kiliat's  face  was  blank  in  the  merciless 
light. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  cried.  "I  told  you  so,  paten 
For  Heaven's  sake,  hedge  on  what  you've  said, 
can't  you?  I  don't  know  how  to  manage  the 
beastly  thing." 

The  elder  Kiliat  was  giddy  with  rage.  He 
faced  the  stern-eyed  man  with  the  stern  back- 
ground of  black  pipes  and  wild  hills,  and  he 
said  more  than  one  thing  that  would  not  look 
well  on  paper.  Unequivocally  he  chopped  a 
week  off  Ormond's  discharge,  tendering  coin 
instead.  He  drew  out  a  cheque  to  that  effect 
on  the  beating  main  pipe  of  the  Lion,  and  Or- 
mond  tore  it  up.  Then  the  chief  of  the  direc- 
tors spoke  apologetically,  and  Bert  Kiliat  com- 
plained, and  the  elder  Kiliat  said  several  things 
more. 

Ormond  went  away  from  it  all,  walking 
blindly.  From  its  covered  box  by  the  Pelton 
wheel  the  telephone  bell  rang  up  from  Adams, 
twenty-two  miles  away  at  the  intake.  Or- 
mond picked  up  the  receiver  mechanically ;  then 
dropped  it  and  sent  word  to  Kiliat  by  Mears. 
Mears  was  carting  over  some  ripples  that  Or- 
mond had  forged  out  yesterday.  The  sight  of 
them  made  the  blood  boil  into  his  head  and 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     241 

throat.  He  turned  into  his  whare  and  banged 
the  door. 

Father  Denis  had  been  up  the  river  for  a 
christening  that  day.  Through  the  morning 
heat  his  pony  had  crawled  and  sweated  and 
loitered  by  each  clump  of  bush.  But  it  came 
home  before  a  whipping  wind  and  a  rattle  of 
thunder  that  shook  the  hills.  Then  the  house- 
keeper— she  was  the  only  human  being  to 
whom  Father  Denis  gave  obedience — ordered 
dried  clothes  and  a  fire  and  warm  food.  So 
the  priest  turned  his  back  on  the  fury  of  the 
swift  night,  and  returned  thanks  for  comfort. 

"An'  ut's  all  of  a  rough  noight  we'll  be  havin' 
on  us,  sure,"  he  said,  with  both  slippers  on  the 
fender.  "Bedad,  I'm  hopin'  as  no  wan  will  be 
afther  choosin'  ut  for  dyin'  in,  and  want  me 
out — now,  if  that  is  a  body  come  cryin'  on  me — 
begorra!  Ormond,  bhoyl  I'm  glad  tu  see  ye. 
Ut  is  not  a  buryin'  or  a  christenin'  ye'll  be 
wantin'  out  ov  me  the  noight,  eh?" 

Ormond  walked  straight  up  to  the  fire,  and 
his  eyes  were  strange. 

"I've  left  her,v  he  said.  "I've  left  her, 
Father!  I've  left  the  Lion!" 

Father  Denis  had  loved  a  woman  once.  He 
loved  her  better  now.  To  the  best  of  his  be- 
lief Ormond  had  loved  the  Lion  instead.  And 
Ormond  would  love  it  more  dearly  now  the 
ways  had  parted  them.  Father  Denis  knew 
all  this  even  as  he  came  to  his  feet  in  haste. 


242    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Bhoy,  ye  are  soaked  clane  through!  Will 
ye  have  some  duds  ov  mine?  No,  then?  Be- 
dad,  there's  a  betther  tu  ahl  things,  will  ye 
bhut  foind  ut,  Ormond.  Sit  ye  down  now,  an' 
talk  ut  out.  Whose  blame  is  ut,  then?" 

Ormond  answered  questions  wearily  and 
without  elaboration.  He  sat  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  propping  his  chin  on  his  hands, 
and  staring  at  the  fire.  It  was  a  plain  face  at 
best,  weather-marked  and  lined.  But  all  the 
endurance  and  the  alert  decision  were  gone 
out  of  it. 

"I'm  tired,"  he  said.  "Tired!  Tired!  There 
isn't  much  good  in  anything  after  all.  A  man 
puts  the  best  of  himself  into  a  thing,  and — 
do  you  know  what  he  feels  like  when  he's  told 
that  his  best  isn't  worth  a  tinker's  curse?" 

"Ut  is  only  a  man's  own  sowl  can  tell  him 
that." 

"Is  it?  Then  my  soul  has  told  me,  I  sup- 
pose. But  Kiliat  said  it  first." 

When  a  man  has  had  seven  years  of  his 
life — and  near  thirty  years  of  experience  before 
that — assessed  at  rather  less  than  nothing, 
there  are  two  dangers  that  lie  under  his  feet. 
Father  Denis  knew  and  faced  them  both,  using 
the  straight  unflinching  speech  that  alone  could 
meet  a  straight  man's  needs.  And  the  thun- 
der cannoned  round  the  hills,  and  the  light- 
ning snickered  by  the  window  as  Argyle  cow- 
ered under  the  anger  of  a  full-waked  storm. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD     243 

Someone  beat  a  mad  tattoo  on  the  knocker, 
followed  the  sound  down  the  passage  and  burst 
into  the  dusky  room,  calling  on  Ormond.  Or- 
mond  looked  up  without  interest. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "What  is  it,  Gordon?" 

"Bert  Kiliat  says  will  yer  come  up  wi'  him 
ter  the  penstock?  Adams  'as  bin  ringin'  an' 
ringin'  like  he  was  dotty.  It  don't  take  much 
ter  put  him  off  his  onion.  Will  yer  come — • 
come  now?  The  hills  will  be  movin'  wi'  water 
gittin'  in  behind  them,  an'  he's  scared  fur  the 
race.  Are  yer  comin'?" 

"No!"  said  Ormond.  "You  can  tell  Mr. 
Bert  Kiliat  that  I  have  left  the  Lion." 

"Oh,  go  on!"  Amazement  shook  the  last 
shreds  of  respect  from  Gordon.  "Yer  can't 
let  the  Lion  go  ter  blazes.  That  rotter  Kiliat's 
no  use.  Come  an'  tell  us  what  ter  do.  Come 
on!" 

Ormond  battered  a  lump  of  coal  down  with 
his  heel. 

"I  am  not  coming,"  he  said.  "You  can  go 
back  and  tell  them  that  I'll  see  them  in  per- 
dition first.  Put  it  anyway  you  like.  I  don't 
care." 

A  silence  that  was  rigid  restraint  fell  be- 
tween the  two  men  when  Gordon  was  gone. 
Father  Denis  only  smoked  in  company.  Or- 
mond was  not  company  to-night.  He  stood 
staring  at  the  fire  with  his  hands  sunk  deep 
in  his  pockets.  Then  he  walked  over  to  the 


244     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

window,  and  leaned  his  forehead  on  the 
glass. 

Father  Denis  used  no  more  words.  For  it 
is  decreed  that  a  man  must  fight  his  battles 
alone  and  unaided.  And  the  cruellest  battle 
of  Ormond's  life  was  upon  him  in  the  little 
dark  room  where  the  tick  of  the  clock  beat  off 
the  seconds. 

Down  the  mountain  sides  the  rain  came  in 
eddies.  A  sudden  lift  struck  out  the  full  moon 
riding  in  wrack  above  the  crest  that  gave  the 
Lion  life.  Ormond  watched  with  his  lips 
drawn  in.  Then  he  wheeled,  and  came  back 
to  the  still  man  at  the  fire. 

"Good-night,  Father.    I'm  off." 

"Where  then?" 

"To  get  a  horse  that'll  take  me  up  the 
Changing." 

"Ail'  ye're  ahl  roight,"  said  Father  Denis 
gladly.  "I  knew  ut,  bhoj^."  And  then  Or- 
mond was  gone  into  the  night. 

In  Conroy's  stables,  Randal  loafed  in  the 
crowd  that  drew  round  the  harness  room  door. 
But  he  skulked  into  the  shadow  as  Ormond 
passed  with  quick  alert  speech  and  command. 
Randal  had  done  no  full  day's  work  since  the 
half -healed  scar  on  his  breast  was  raw.  Yet 
the  shame  of  this  had  not  jagged  him  before 
now.  Conroy's  voice  rumbled  down  between 
the  low-lit  stalls. 

"Luck — nuthin'!    It's  the  Devil's  luck  an* 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    245 

all  of  it  you'll  want  to-night,  Ormond — there's 
the  roan  pony,  then.  He  kin  stand  up  ter  it." 

"Where  is  he?  Chuck  along  some  gear, 
boys." 

To  the  steel  jangle  and  the  swift  clatter  of 
hoofs  on  the  flags  Conroy  cast  one  injunction: 

"Jes'  remember  that  pony's  worth  fifty 
notes,  Ormond.  An'  the  Lion  won't  be  wuth 
a  rotten  egg  come  mornin'." 

Ormond  was  into  the  street  as  the  stable 
boys's  hands  left  the  girth,  and  the  roan  pony 
raced  with  reefed  rein  for  the  bridge.  Beside 
the  abutment  Ormond  swung  for  the  shingle, 
working  up  the  creek  and  across,  holding  iris 
bearings  true  to  the  foot.  On  the  far  side  he 
struck  the  track  that  swerved  ever  away  to 
the  left,  and  gave  the  pony  its  head  up  the  rain- 
battered  hill. 

A  clear  plan  had  shaped  in  his  mind  ere  ever 
he  crossed  the  leather.  It  gave  the  sense  that 
snatched  a  short-handled  chopper  from  a  shelf 
in  the  mews,  and  that  turned  the  pony's  head 
to  Paddy's  Gully,  some  twelve  miles  below 
the  penstock.  Not  Bert  Kiliat  nor  any 
living  man  could  help  the  race  if  Adams  had 
not  talked  lies  on  the  wire.  Indubitably  Or- 
mond knew  this.  For  the  Lion  race  was  of 
all  things  difficult  to  guard.  It  doubled  on 
itself  many  times  down  the  mountain;  and 
should  a  slip  come,  the  whole  race  must  go  out, 
swept  before  the  torrent  in  the  flumings  be- 


246    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

low.  The  fluming  straddled  swamps  and  little 
gullies  and  worked-out  mining  country.  The 
big  two-mile  flume  was  strong.  Ormond  had 
given  it  all  his  spare  time  for  a  year  past.  And 
Paddy's  Gully  flume  was  strong,  for  it  had 
been  renewed  in  the  last  three  months.  Or- 
mond could  trust  them  to  carry  the  first  of  the 
rush — the  half — possibly  the  whole.  And  this 
meant  more  than  his  nerve  dared  face.  It 
meant  the  swamping  and  buckling  of  the 
slighter  fluming  near  the  claim.  It  meant  the 
choking  and  wrenching  apart  of  the  two  miles 
of  pipes,  and  the  driving  of  them  into  the  pad- 
dock bottom  with  a  welter  of  broken  jets, 
boxes,  connections.  It  meant  the  death  of  the 
Lion. 

The  sleet  whipped  Ormond's  ears;  the  near 
hills  rocked  and  changed  shape  as  the  storm 
lightened  and  rose  again.  He  slewed  from 
the  track  to  drive  the  roan  pony  into  a  mad 
little  mountain  river  that  rolled  boulders  at 
him  and  smelt  of  new- wet  earth.  This  cut  off 
five  miles,  and  bruised  his  shin  badly  on  a  sharp 
rock.  The  rain  pelted  like  steel  knitting 
needles,  and  the  pony's  steady  scramble  flagged 
slightly.  Here  was  no  track,  and  the  footway 
spread  cruelly  uncertain.  But  the  knobs  and 
spurs  and  gullies  through  which  the  Lion  race 
took  its  way  down  the  mountain  drew  Ormond 
forward,  unswerving,  where  the  windy  wrack 
drove. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    247 

The  Big  Flume  dribbled  suddenly  on  his 
head  as  he  rode  athwart  the  track  nineteen  feet 
below.  He  heard  her  roar  above  the  growling 
thunder  and  the  snap  of  the  rain.  Then  he 
brought  the  pony  up  the  gully  side  with  hooked 
spurs. 

"Three  miles  to  Paddy's  Gully,  yet,"  he 
said,  and  flogged  the  pony  across  the  tussock 
length  of  them. 

Paddy's  Gully  flume  received  direct  from 
the  race,  and  it  was  here  that  Ormond  must 
strike  if  he  would  do  more  than  Kiliat,  now 
riding  with  his  men  from  the  penstock  where 
blind  terror  chased  them. 

The  shored-up  channel  was  running  full  and 
angry  by  his  knee  when  he  passed  out  of  the 
tussock  to  the  flax  swamp.  The  end  of  the 
world  cut  sheer  off  before  him,  and  Ormond 
left  the  saddle  and  slung  the  rein  to  a  broom 
root  in  two  movements.  He  dropped  down, 
hand  over  hand,  with  the  chopper  buttoned  in- 
side his  shirt.  The  floor  of  Paddy's  Gully  was 
riddled  with  f alien-in  shafts,  and  Ormond  went 
forward  at  a  run,  nosing  among  them  by  in- 
stinct. Every  foot  of  the  gully  was  trodden 
ground  to  him. 

The  roar  of  blood  in  his  ears  deadened  the 
roar  of  thunder  along  the  night.  The  snicker 
of  lightning  was  against  his  cheek;  and  once, 
far  behind,  he  heard  the  roan  pony  scream  in 
fear.  The  moon  swept  out  from  the  thick 


248    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

black  for  two  breaths.  Through  sleet  like  the 
bars  of  a  cage  Ormond  saw  the  great  hump 
of  the  Lion  Mountain  stripped  into  naked  lines 
and  sleek  with  streams.  Below,  and  brought 
forward  to  the  eye,  a  thousand  rivers  gallopped 
through  scrub  and  round  bluffs;  spilling  side- 
ways into  the  bubbling  gullies,  and  coasting 
down  the  spurs  with  heads  of  foam.  Some- 
where in  the  midst  of  that  hell  the  race  was 
going  out.  Somewhere,  in  or  below  it,  Bert 
Kiliat  and  a  dozen  more  were  racing  for 
life. 

"And  not  one  of  them  thought  of  Paddy's 
Gully!"  said  Ormond  in  a  high  fierce  pride. 
"Not  one!  Oh,  good  God!  Can't  the  dark 
hold  up?  Just  for  ten  minutes!" 

Paddy's  Gully  flume  was  under  a  mile  in 
length,  and  the  gully  fell  east  to  the  river.  A 
break  in  the  big  flume  would  send  the  whole 
torrent  down  Changing  Creek.  A  break  here 
would  save  more  than  the  Lion. 

Ormond  swarmed  up  the  flume  cat- wise,  and 
crawled  out  along  the  cross-ties.  The  wind 
plucked  his  hands  loose  more  than  twice,  and 
the  weight  of  his  body  as  he  snatched  and 
swung  took  the  skin  from  his  palms.  At  his  ear 
the  flume  was  running  full  and  steady,  with  no 
grate  of  boulders  to  jar  it.  The  wild  strange 
smell  of  flax  blew  up  from  the  swamp  to  mix 
with  the  air  that  stank  of  sulphur  and  new- 
made  mud.  Ormond  cast  himself  from  tie  to 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    249 

tie,  making  sternly  forward.  There  was  no 
shake  on  the  flume  yet;  but  neither  was  there 
time  for  pause.  When  the  flood  struck  it  would 
give  short  warning. 

"I'll  let  her  have  a  quarter-mile,"  said  Or- 
mond.  "If  she  stands  up  to  it  that  won't  be 
too  much." 

He  came  astraddle  the  fluming  side,  and 
used  the  chopper  with  a  free  arm-swing,  beat- 
ing, cutting  and  splintering  the  wood  into 
wreck.  He  worked  backwards,  knocking  off 
the  top  board  for  a  space  of  five  feet.  The 
wind  was  ice  to  his  chilled  body,  but  the  sweat 
dropped  from  him.  It  was  such  a  little  chance, 
and  it  meant  so  very  much.  In  the  beginning 
the  water  had  washed  round  his  ankle.  Before 
the  first  board  was  off  it  clung  cold  to  his  shin. 
He  talked  to  it  in  quick  broken  words,  while 
the  wild  night  raved  over  him,  and  the  flume 
shook  on  its  skeleton  trestles,  and  the 
rivers  tore  downwards;  flooding  the  broken 
race,  choking  it  again  with  rocks,  leaping 
over  by  bare  bluff  and  spur  to  the  bot- 
tom. 

Ormond  sprang  into  the  flume,  came  to  one 
knee,  and  beat  in  the  lower  boards  savagely. 
The  water  was  under  his  armpits.  It  was 
slobbering  over  the  gap.  It  was  deathly  cold, 
and  the  rush  of  it  nailed  him  against  the  side 
as  he  battered  the  wood,  blind  and  desper- 
ate. 


250    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Give  me  a  little  longer,  old  girl!"  he  cried. 
"Only  a  little  longer,  and  I  can  do  it!" 

The  flume  shivered  as  though  a  hundred 
ton  of  rolling  stock  crossed  it. 

"By  Heaven!'  said  Ormond;  "she's  struck! 
But  she's  carrying;  I  knew  she  would!"  And 
he  drove  in  the  underwash  with  an  insane  pride 
that  his  work  should  be  so  strong. 

Something  splashed  in  the  water  at  his 
shoulder.  Something  gripped  him  about  the 
neck,  bearing  him  down  sideways.  Ormond 
knew  the  man  even  as  his  clutching  hands  slid 
over  him. 

"Randal!  For  God's  sake  let  me  up! 
Ah-h!" 

In  that  moment  he  would  have  killed  Ran- 
dal if  he  could.  He  tried,  striking  with  the 
chopper,  which  Randal  caught  by  the  blade, 
wrenching  it  this  way  and  that.  There  was  no 
more  speech.  Just  the  roar  of  the  night,  and 
of  the  rising  water  and  the  hard-drawn  breath- 
ing of  the  men,  and  the  crack  of  straining  mus- 
cles. Ormond  swung  free  once,  beating  on 
the  board  joint  with  a  strength  beyond  his 
own.  But  as  the  wood  splintered  Randal  bore 
him  down.  And  along  the  ways  he  could  hear 
the  flood  coming. 

There  were  stones  in  the  flume  now — new- 
torn  flint  that  scarred  them  as  the  water  power 
rushed  it  by.  Ormond  clung  to  the  bottom 
board  with  the  muddy;  wetness  round  his  ears. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    251 

The  board  gave,  gaped  an  inch.  Then  the 
force  of  the  water  swept  in  behind,  driving  the 
loose  board  out  across  the  flume. 

Ormond  was  beaten  back  with  it,  under  the 
cross-ties,  with  all  the  wrath  of  heaven  upon 
him.  The  roar  overside  jolted  sense  from  his 
brain,  and  death  seemed  a  little  thing  that  mat- 
tered not.  For  the  Lion  was  saved — the 
Lion — 

It  was  Randal  who  shook  him  into  conscious- 
ness with  merciless  hands. 

"Come  off!  Curse  it,  will  you  come?  Or- 
mond— 

The  mechanic  in  Ormond  told  him  that  the 
water  would  very  presently  dig  out  the  trestles, 
pitch  them  forward,  and  part  the  flume.  Ani- 
mal instinct  brought  his  numbed  hands  grop- 
ing for  the  cross-ties.  Randal  was  behind  him, 
goading  him  forward,  hauling  him  up  where 
he  stumbled  in  the  lessening  flood.  The  flume 
dipped  underfoot,  rocked  as  though  an  earth- 
quake had  it  by  the  muscles,  fell  out  sideways 
with  a  crashing  thunder  and  a  screech  of  tear- 
ing wood  that  overrode  the  yell  of  the  storm. 

Somewhere  on  the  edge  of  the  wreck  Randal 
hung,  gripping  Ormond.  Somewhere  in  the 
black  slippery  staging  he  found  foothold  for 
both,  so  that  they  crawled  forward  to  fall  on 
the  sand  hollows  and  the  manuka  where  the 
rain  beat,  and  to  lie  there  until  morning  was 
red. 


252    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

When  Ormond  roused,  stiff  and  weary  be- 
yond caring,  he  saw  Randal  sitting  with  his 
knees  drawn  up,  and  the  sunshine  harsh  on  his 
face.  The  lines  of  his  face  hurt  Ormond  to 
the  quick.  He  walked  across  with  legs  that 
refused  to  carry  him  straightly. 

"It  wouldn't  make  any  difference,  Randal," 
he  said  pitifully.  "Kiliat  has  won.  You  knew, 
didn't  you?" 

Randal  looked  out  before  him  across  the 
wreckage  of  the  gully  where  the  flood  still  gal- 
lopped  in  spume. 

"Kiliat  had  everything  in  the  Lion,"  he  said 
levelly.  "If  the  Lion  was  done  he  was  done, 
too.  Do  you  think  he  would  marry  if  he  had 
to  work  for  her?  I  know  better  than  that." 

Ormond's  hands  fell  on  the  bowed  shoulders. 
His  palms  were  raw  flesh,  and  the  whole  man 
was  cramped  with  pain. 

"Come   along   back,    old   chap,"   he   said. 

"Come  along  back  to  Father  Denis.  For 
we've  both  of  us  loved  too  well,  Randal;  and 
we  both  know  the  punishment  for  that  sin." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  full  light  had  gone  from  the  hills,  and 
the  little  whare  up  Chinaman's  Gully  was  one 
smudge  with  the  manuka  scrub,  except  where 
a  red  finger  of  sunset  marked  the  window 
blood-colour.  Ormond  flattened  his  nose  on 
the  six-by-eight  window,  walked  round  and 
kicked  in  the  door.  The  place  was  blank- 
empty  and  dark;  and  Ormond  hit  his  shin  on 
a  nail  keg  and  ran  foul  of  a  something  that 
smelt  like  green  hide  before  he  could  make  a 
light.  A  half -burnt-out  slush  lamp  was  on  the 
ground,  with  the  ash  of  last  night's  fire  and 
three  dirty  plates.  Ormond  lit  it  and  set  it 
on  the  rough  plank  shelf.  Then  he  reviled  its 
splutters  and  smell,  and  blinked  round. 

"Suppose  the  old  chap  will  come  along  di- 
rectly," he  said,  and  tossed  that  which  he  car- 
ried on  the  bunk  that  headed  to  the  window. 

A  muddle  of  blankets  was  there  already,  and 
a  gun,  and  a  cleaning  rod.  Ormond  sucked  in 
his  lips,  reaching  for  the  gun.  He  jerked  open 
the  nipple  and  two  bullet  cartridges  bobbed 
into  his  palm.  He  held  them  up,  frowning  at 
them. 


254     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Would  you?"  he  said.  "Would  you? 
Randal,  my  friend,  I  thought  there  was  better 
stuff  in  you  than  that!  But — after  to-night — 
I  think  I'll  take  charge  of  these — for  the  pres- 
ent, anyway." 

He  raked  six  from  the  blanket  heap,  picked 
up  another  on  the  floor,  dropped  them  into  his 
trouser  pocket,  and  set  about  making  a  fire. 
A  half -filled  billy  swung  from  the  hook,  and 
it  suggested  something.  Ormond  grunted  and 
slipped  his  coat. 

"You've  washed  up  for  me  before  now,  Ran- 
dal," he  said.  "Suppose  it's  up  to  me  to  do  it 
for  you.  And — seeing  that  I've  come  to  hurt 
you  pretty  severely,  I'll  serve  you  a  clean 
feed,  anyway." 

He  gathered  greasy  pannikins  and  dishes; 
tipped  them  into  a  deep  meat  pan,  and  cleared 
decks  with  a  deft  foot.  .  .  .  "And  I  think 
you're  not  taking  much  pride  in  yourself  just 
now,  old  man,  for  you're  not  a  pig  by  nature. 
Now  where  the  dickens  is  that  smelling 
hide?" 

He  went  to  work  like  a  man  accustomed; 
while  the  afterglow  on  the  hills  ripened  to  pur- 
ple and  claret,  and  sank  through  mouse-colour 
and  canary  to  a  windy  black.  Then  the  grate 
of  pick  and  shovel  sounded  as  they  fell  together 
by  the  door,  and  Randal  came  in,  kicking  the 
clay  of  the  wash  from  his  hip  boots.  He  had 
grown  older  in  the  month  that  had  brought 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    255 

Effie  Scannell's  wedding  very  near,  and  a  dull 
reserve  had  grown  on  him. 

"Thought  the  place  was  on  fire,"  he  said, 
pulling  the  door  to  against  the  wind. 

Ormond  turned  from  the  tins  where  he  had 
been  tasting  the  difference  between  Navy-cut 
and  tea. 

"Just  been  getting  a  surprise  party  ready 
for  you,  Randal.  Tea,  eh?  The  billy  is  boil- 
ing its  head  off." 

"No,  thanks."  Randal  slung  his  kit  in  a 
corner  and  rubbed  his  hands  over  his  fore- 
head. "What  is  it,  Ormond?" 

"I — have  brought  them.  You — you're 
going  to  stand  up  to  it  all  right,  Randal?  Yes 
— in  the  bunk." 

Randal  lifted  the  little  shapeless  packet. 

"This?" 

"Yes."  Ormond  laid  a  hand  on  the  other 
man's  arm.  "Old  fellow — have  something  to 
eat  first.  You're  clean  played  out." 

Randal  took  his  knife,  and  slashed  through 
the  tightly  bound  string  with  fierce  upward 
cuts.  Ormond  understood  that  the  trouble 
was  for  now,  and  he  moved  into  the  shadow 
with  his  head  among  the  cross-ties. 

"But  you  don't  need  a  knife,  Randal,"  he 
muttered.  "Granny  knots,  I'll  bet  my  shirt! 
When  did  a  girl  ever  tie  anything  else?" 

Randal's  fingers  were  stiff.  The  slim  shovel 
handle  cramped  more  than  the  reins  of  the  past 


256    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

years.  But  he  tore  the  paper  away,  and  shook 
the  things  out  on  the  two-plank  table.  They 
were  very  ordinary  things.  Seven  letters  in 
Randal's  straggling  writing;  a  bunch  of  dried 
cotton  flowers  and  daisies  gathered  on  the 
Brothers  last  mustering  season;  a  chipped 
Maori  axe  found  at  the  head  of  the  river  (he 
had  carried  it  in  his  shirt  for  safety  and  it  had 
rubbed  a  raw  wound  before  he  could  give  it  to 
her),  and  one  or  two  birthday  and  Christmas 
cards,  with  no  more  than  the  name  "Effie"  on 
them  in  his  handwriting.  Randal  touched 
them  softly  with  his  fingertips,  and  Ormond 
looked  steadfastly  on  the  crumbling  sod  wall 
hung  with  the  miner's  things  that  were  so 
familiar. 

In  the  dead  silence  the  talk  of  little  flames  in 
the  chimney  piece  was  eager  and  cruelly  dis- 
tinct. They  called  for  food.  Ormond  heard 
them.  Then  Randal  passed  him  with  a  long 
swift  step,  cast  a  double  handful  of  the  stuff 
on  the  red,  and  ground  it  in  with  his  heel.  Or- 
mond waited  while  the  cotton-flower  ash  spun 
up  into  the  night  with  the  paper,  while  the 
green  flint  axe  settled,  strong  and  unflaking, 
into  the  heart  of  the  fire.  Then  he  came  across 
and  put  a  hand  on  the  bowed  shoulders. 
He  had  learned  to  know  Randal  since 
the  night  Death  missed  them  both  on  the 
Lion. 

Randal  twisted  away  from  him. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    257 

"See  the  axe?"  he  said.  "We  can't  turn 
everything  into  smoke  and  lies — though  we 
try.  Well — I've  done  it!  You  can  go  back 
and  tell  her  I've  done  it!" 

"You  have  only  done  half,"  said  Ormond, 
meeting  his  eyes  straightly.  "And  you've  got 
to  do  the  other  half  now.  That  was  what 
she  asked,  wasn't  it  ?  And  you  gave  your  word. 
Has  that  gone?  For  if  so  you've  lost  every- 
thing, Randal." 

"No,"  said  Randal,  "I  remember."  He 
turned  to  the  locker  at  the  bunkfoot,  and  Or- 
mond's  keen  eyes  grew  graver.  When  a  horse 
will  not  rouse  to  the  whip  the  chances  are  that 
the  girth-gall  sore  is  sapping  him. 

From  the  locker  bottom  Randal  brought  out 
an  old  writing  case  worked  in  coloured  silks 
by  a  mother  or  a  sister  whom  he  had  never 
spoken  of.  It  was  burst  at  the  sides  and  frayed 
from  constant  handling.  Ormond  knew  that  it 
held  the  core  of  Randal's  life,  and,  at  that 
moment,  he  hated  Effie  Scannell. 

"Shall  I— go  outside,  Randal?" 

"No!  I  don't  care — chuck  some  more  fat 
into  that  slushlight." 

There  was  that  in  his  face  which  made  Or- 
mond try  again. 

"Dump  'em  all  in  together,  man.  There's 
no  sense  in  twisting  the  knife." 

But  Randal  did  not  hear.  He  stood  by  the 
slushlight,  where  a  lump  of  meat  swam  in  the 


258    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

unstrained  fat,  smelling  vilely.  The  billy  spat 
and  dribbled  on  its  hook,  and  the  throb  of  the 
flames  cast  the  stern  dark  face  in  alternate 
light  and  shadow.  He  shook  the  things  out 
on  the  table.  Letters,  and  again  letters — tied 
with  ribbon,  with  string  and  with  bootlace.  A 
painted  tobacco  pouch  wrapped  in  tissue  paper, 
and  scented  with  lavender  water;  and  other 
foolish  little  things  such  as  a  girl  might  give 
to  the  man  she  loves. 

Ormond  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"Best  be  getting  on  with  it,  old  chap,"  he 
said  softly. 

Randal  straightened  and  his  words  came 
with  a  rush. 

"What's  the  sense  of  burning  them?  D'you 
think  I  can  forget  what  she's  said — here? 
D'you  think  I  can  ever  forget  what  she  has 
said?  D'you  think  there's  any  fire  burns  hot 
enough  for  that?  There  isn't!  I've  been  into 
hell  to  look  for  it- 

" Steady,  old  man!  Steady!  Randal — 
Randal — oh,  I  am  sorry!" 

"D your  sorrow!  I  don't  want  it!  Did 

she  say  she  was  sorry,  too?  Did  she  send  me 
a  pretty  proper  little  message  to  take  the  place 
of— these?" 

He  swept  up  a  handful  and  slung  them  on 
the  fire. 

"What  the  devil  right  have  you  to  be  sorry? 
You  loved  the  Lion,  and  you  can  go  back  to 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    259 

her.  Both  the  Kiliats  are  praying  you  on  their 
knees  to  go  back  to  her.  But  I— 

Ormond's  words  struck  with  all  the  force 
at  his  command: 

"And  do  you  know  why  I  can  go  back  to 
her?  It's  because  I've  held  myself  clean  and 
fit  to  serve  her  all  these  years!  It's  because 
I've  never  messed  away  my  life  and  gone 
downhill,  without  the  courage  or  the  deter- 
mination to  pull  in.  You're  a  strong  man, 
Randal!  Father  Denis  told  you  that;  and 
you're  young  yet.  How  dare  you  ruin  the 
only  life  you've  got!  Go  away  and  make 
something  of  it — something  worthy  of  such  a 
man  as  you  would  be!  Oh,  Randal!  you  are 
a  slinking  coward,  and  that's  the  best  and  the 
worst  word  of  you." 

"If  you  were  any  other  man,"  said  Randal, 
"I  think  I'd  kill  you  for  that!  But  I  don't 
suppose  it  would  be  worth  it.  Nothing  is 
worth  anything  much.  Love  and  hate,  and  all 
the  other  things  a  man  lives  for — they're  all 
rotten." 

He  untied  a  blue  ribbon  that  Effie's  fingers 
had  tied,  and  shook  the  letters  on  the  fire, 
watching  with  unmoving  eyes  as  they  unrolled 
and  shivered  into  tinder.  Ormond  went  back 
to  the  dark  corner.  These  tongues  of  flame 
held  Randal's  ear  to-night. 

The  wind  was  muttering  very  restlessly  in 
the  tussock.  The  back  log  of  totara  fell  in 


260    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

half  and  jammed  the  tobacco  pouch.  Randal 
freed  it  with  his  foot.  An  envelope  atop  of 
all  curJed  open,  baring  a  quarter-plate  photo- 
graph, disgracefully  toned  by  an  amateur. 
Randal  dived  after  it  with  an  oath,  and  the 
hair  was  singed  from  his  hand  and  arm  in  the 
saving  of  it. 

"Chuck  that  back!"  said  Ormond. 

Randal  cradled  the  indistinct  little  picture 
in  both  hands.  There  was  just  the  dainty  pose 
of  the  head  and  the  sweet  droop  of  the  lip  to 
show. 

"She  need  never  know — just  this  one  thing, 
Ormond." 

"No!  You've  honour  enough  to  carry  you 
through  this  business  properly,  haven't  you? 
And  you  have  no  right  to  that  of  all  things, 
Randal.  You  come  of  the  breed  that  dies  in 
its  boots,  and  if  anyone  found  that  on 

you- 

"I  have  a  right  to  it!  She  gave  it  to  me! 
And  I  have  a  right  to  her — to  her!  She  gave 
herself  to  me  long  ago " 

Ormond  secured  the  photograph  with  a  dex- 
terous twist,  and  spun  it  into  the  flame. 

"You're  talking  piffle,"  he  said,  "and  worse. 
Stand  up  to  it,  can't  you?  And  remember  that 
she  is  to  be  married  in  a  week,  while  you" — 
Ormond  grew  suddenly  angry — "you'll  go 
down  into  the  gutter  and  lie  there,  I  suppose! 
You've  just  about  enough  sense!  Oh,  Randal, 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    2G1 

Randal!  you  silly  old  fool!  why  don't  you 
punch  my  head?  It  would  do  you  heaps  of 
good!" 

Randal  did  not  answer.  Ormond  knew  that 
he  did  not  hear.  He  stared  down  into  the  fire 
until  Ormond  covered  it  with  the  frying  pan, 
dropping  a  cartridge  from  his  pocket  as 
he  stooped.  Randal  picked  it  up.  Then 
he  went  over  to  the  bunk  and  snapped 
open  the  breech  of  his  gun.  Lastly,  he 
looked  at  Ormond  and  grinned.  It  was  not  a 
nice  grin. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.  "You're  very  consider- 
ate, Ormond.  But  don't  you  think  I'd  have 
done  it  long  ago  if  I'd  meant  to  take  that 
way?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ormond;  "for  you  do 
not  know  yourself,  Randal." 

Randal  slid  his  hand  into  his  side  pocket; 
pulled  out  some  cartridges  and  reloaded  in 
two  movements. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said  to  the  face  show- 
ing faintly  in  the  smoky  shadows.  "I  want  to 
ask  you  something."  His  voice  shook  and 
thickened.  "If  you  can  tell  me  that  she — has 
not  forgotten,  I'll  wait  till  the  end  of  time  to 
help  her  if  she  wants  me.  If  you  can't — I'll 
blaze  out  my  own  track,  and  it's  no  business  of 
yours  or  of  any  other  man's.  Well?  Tell  me, 
can't  you?  You  know,  for  you  have  seen  her. 
She  gave  you  the  things." 


262    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"You  have  no  longer  any  right  to  think  of 
her  at  all 

"Tell  me,  will  you?" 

Ormond  knew  this  Randal  well  enough.  He 
would  kill  if  he  did  not  get  his  answer.  By 
all  a  man's  knowledge  of  man  Ormond  feared 
the  effect  of  either  lie  or  truth.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  he  chose  a  lie: 

"She  has  forgotten,"  he  said  slowly. 

Randal  stretched  up,  and  laid  the  gun  in  its 
slings.  When  he  turned  again  his  face  was 
blank  as  a  slate  with  its  troublesome  lesson 
wiped  off. 

"That  is  all,  then,"  he  said.  "The  thing  is 
out  of  your  hands  now.  You  understand?" 

Ormond  moved  to  the  door ;  but  it  was  flung 
wide  in  his  face,  and  something  ran  past  him, 
swift  and  light,  with  sobbing  breath  and 
broken  laughing  words. 

"Guy!  Guy!  I've  come  back!  I've  come 
back  to  you!  Oh— Guy " 

From  the  door  Ormond  saw  the  flushed  wet 
dimpling  face  and  the  wonderful  new  light  in 
the  eyes.  He  saw  Randal,  and  went  out,  clos- 
ing the  door.  Then  Randal  spoke,  unmoving. 

"Kiliat?"hesaid. 

Effie  Scannell  tore  a  ring  from  her  finger 
and  sent  the  opal  spark  to  meet  the  green  axe 
lying  heavy  in  the  fire  heart. 

"And  that  is  all  there  is  of  Mr.  Kiliat!"  she 
cried.  "I  have  told  him  so!  I  knew  it  when 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    263 

your  letters  went  away.  Oh — surely  I  have 
known  it  always,  though  I  didn't  understand. 
Oh,  Guy!  there  was  only  you  for  me  and  me 
for  you  since  God  made  us.  Guy — my  own 
dear  one!" 

"No!"  said  Randal.  "I  can't;  I  am  not 
worthy!" 

She  came  to  him,  standing  with  her  hands 
linked,  and  her  grave  dark  eyes  on  his. 

"You  have  no  choice,  Guy,"  she  said  simply. 
"And  I  have  not  any,  either.  I  have  been  a 
child  always.  Now  I  am  a  woman,  for  I  know 
what  love  means.  It  is  very  terrible,  Guy, 
and  it  frightens  me,  because  it  has  taken  every- 
thing out  of  the  earth  but  God  and  you.  Guy 
—help  me!  For  love  is  too  big  for  a  girl  to 
bear  it  by  herself!" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  her  hands  came  over 
her  face.  And,  by  the  loss  of  the  child-frank- 
ness of  old,  Randal  understood.  Effie  had 
come  into  her  woman's  heritage  that  was  to  be 
his  also. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"I  AIN'T  goin'  ter  hev  no  contagious  best 
man,"  said  Danny,  stolidly.  "The  boys'll 
most  on  'em  be  down  ter  see  us  spliced;  but  I 
don't  want  'em  hoppin'  round  wi'  me.  We 
got  the  stage  ter  ourselfs  on  Wednesday, 
Suse." 

Suse  slid  her  arm  round  his  neck.  For 
twilight  was  over  the  bridge  spanning 
Changing  Creek,  and  there  were  none  but  the 
red-eyed  dredges  upstream  to  see. 

"I  don't  care  about  all  the  boys,"  she  said. 
"But  Maiden  is  to  be  bridesmaid,  an'  so  Steve 
must  be  best  man,  Danny." 

"She'd  sooner  hev  Lou,  I  guess,  old  lady. 
They've  bin  pretty  thick  lately." 

Suse  pulled  the  carefully  twisted  curl  on 
his  forehead. 

"I  was  beginnin'  ter  think  as  I'd  taught  you 
somethin',  lad,"  she  said,  "but  you  got  a  good 
long  way  to  go  'fore  you  pick  up  the  common 
sense  as  a  gel  has  by  nature." 

"Then  I'll  pick  up  an  armful  now,  while  I 
got  the  chanst!  But,  Suse — Randal  an'  Miss 
Effie  didn't  hev  no  best  man  or  no  bridesmaid." 

264 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    265 

Suse  twisted  a  little  in  his  hold  and  kissed 
him. 

"That  weren't  quite  the  same,  you  dear  ole 
chump.  An'  you'll  ask  Steve  ter-morrow, 
Danny?" 

"We-ell,"  said  Danny,  resignedly;  and  then 
puckered  his  forehead  as  a  slim  boy  shape  ran 
past  them  in  the  dusk. 

"Roddy  Duncan,"  said  Suse,  flushing. 
"Take  yer  arm  away,  Danny !  I " 

"What's  the  odds?  He's  gone  now,  any- 
ways. An'  runnin'  like  ole  Nick  were  arter 
him,  too." 

There  was  that  in  Roddy's  face  confirmed 
Danny's  words.  He  was  white-lipped,  and  a 
desperate  terror  sat  in  the  back  of  his  eyes. 
He  ran  fleetly  with  his  head  down,  breasting 
the  tussock  hill,  swinging  to  the  right,  and 
taking  the  little  winding  sheep  track  that  led 
the  way  to  Pipi  Wepeha's  whare.  The  cab- 
bage trees  were  moaning  in  the  evening  wind, 
and  the  brushing  flax  at  his  feet  seemed  to 
whisper  words,  tossing  them  on  the  night. 
Pipi's  whare  was  dark  and  very  silent  where  it 
sat  by  the  track,  and  Roddy  pulled  up,  shaking 
with  something  that  was  not  exhaustion. 

Any  man  can  overcome  fear  of  all  that  may 
be  put  into  bald  words — that  may  be  set  down 
clear  to  the  understanding.  But  that  fear 
which  is  elusive,  intangible ;  which  belongs  only 
to  the  winds  and  the  untrod  earth  and  the  wide 


266    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

night  with  its  throbbing  stars,  holds  the  soul 
in  a  dread  that  cannot  be  crushed  down,  be- 
cause it  cannot  be  explained.  That  dread  had 
been  with  Roddy  since  Murray  spoke  to  Or- 
mond  on  the  Lion  hilltop.  Six  times  he  had 
held  his  courage  between  his  teeth  and  taken 
the  track  to  Pipi's  whare.  Six  times  it  had 
failed  him,  and  sent  him  back.  Last  night  he 
had  crept  to  the  window  and  watched  Pipi  a 
half -hour  by  the  fire  blaze.  This  night  Pipi 
had  gone  to  the  township,  and  Roddy  had  come 
up  in  the  added  knowledge  gained  by  that 
watching. 

Slowly  he  pushed  the  door  open.  It  creaked, 
and  a  smell  of  rancid  fish  came  out.  Roddy 
struck  a  match,  and  went  in  and  dropped  the 
latch  behind  him.  The  whare  was  low  and 
very  dirty.  It  sloped  from  a  ridge  pole,  and 
roof  and  sides  were  of  split  twisted  flax  and 
raupo.  Pipi's  sleeping  mat  lay  by  the  fire- 
place which  he  had  built  of  kerosene  tins,  and  a 
carved  Maori  head  with  a  greenstone  tiki 
slung  round  the  neck  stood  on  a  pole.  Round 
the  forehead  where  the  tattoo  lines  were  set 
in  spirals  was  bound  Murray's  red  necktie. 

Roddy  stood  still  and  looked  at  it.  To  tear 
the  thing  off  and  run  away  home  with  it  seemed 
simple  utterly — when  the  township  lights  and 
noise  were  round  him.  But  the  lonely  Fight- 
ing Hill  with  its  traditions  of  blood  and  hate; 
the  rub  of  the  flax  leaves  without  the  door;  the 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    267 

unexplainable  sense  of  living  and  seeing  that 
crowded  the  dark  silent  whare,  knit  a  power 
too  strong  for  the  sensitive  boy.  Roddy's 
match  went  out,  burning  his  fingers,  and  in 
the  blackness  something  surely  breathed.  The 
sweat  was  wet  on  his  face  as  he  made  another 
spurt  of  flame  to  flare  over  the  grinning  tiki 
that  writhed  its  limbs  with  the  shake  of  the 
match. 

"I — must  do  it!"  said  Roddy  in  his  throat. 
"I  must— I  must!" 

He  pulled  the  red  faded  necktie  away  from 
the  wood,  stuffed  it  in  his  breast  pocket, 
brought  out  another — chosen  from  the  same 
stock  at  Derrett's  shop,  and  worn  to  shabbi- 
ness — in  haste,  and  twisted  it  on  the  head  in 
place  of  the  first.  Then  he  trod  the  match 
underfoot,  and  groped  for  the  door. 

It  pushed  open  suddenly,  shutting  him  be- 
hind it,  and  someone  came  in  with  heavy  steps. 
Roddy's  breath  died  in  his  throat,  and  from 
the  raupo  walls  behind  hands  were  surely 
stretching  to  hold  him.  He  could  feel  the  man 
searching,  silently,  yet  with  system  and  de- 
termination. All  that  Lou  had  told  him  of 
the  tohunga  power;  all  that  the  night  had 
taught  him  of  mystery  chilled  his  heart  and 
held  him  motionless.  The  moving  hands  came 
nearer.  Roddy  knew  that  they  would  present- 
ly touch  his  face.  And  the  spirits  of  horror 
and  of  evil  were  about  him  when  a  hand 


268    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

brushed  his  cheek,  slid  to  his  shoulder  and 
clenched  there. 

Then  came  the  crackle  of  a  match  up  a 
trouser  leg,  and  the  hold  loosed  on  the  boy  as 
Murray  said: 

"Roddy!  You  young  imp!  What  the  devil 
are  you  doing  here?" 

"Murray — Murray — Murray!"  Roddy  held 
him  tight.  "I  thought  you  was  Pipi 

"Pipi  is  down  in  the  township.  I  saw  him 
as  I  was  going  over  to  Cardigan's.  That  is 
why  I  was  certain  I  was  after  a  burglar  when 
I  spotted  the  light  up  here.  And  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  wasn't  right,  either,  Roddy." 

"You — got  pluck  ter  come  up  here,"  said 
Roddy,  very  low. 

Murray  laughed  shortly. 

"There's  very  much  in  the  world  that  we 
don't  understand,  Roddy.  But  we  can  fight 
it,  all  the  same.  Evil  is  a  tangible  thing,  in 
whatever  form  it  comes — tangible  enough  to 
stand  up  to,  anyway." 

"But  you  believe  that  Pipi— that  Pipi- 

Murray  turned,  lighting  a  tallow  dip  that 
stood  within  three  nails  on  a  board. 

"I  was  dog-tired  that  night  Pipi  started  his 
yarns,"  he  said,  "and  I  was  afraid — I  was  dead 
afraid  that  he  might  do  some  foolery.  That's 
what  gave  him  the  hold,  do  you  see?  You  take 
my  tip,  Roddy:  When  a  fellow  begins  to 
funk,  morally  or  physically,  he  is  bound  to 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    269 

fall  in  somehow.  He's  melting  the  wax  for 
anything  to  cast  the  impression  on.  It's  a 
thing  that  is  done  more  often  than  you  know 
— in  one  way  or  another.  But  if  you've  got 
pluck  enough  to  stand  the  fire  that  will  melt 
the  wax  again  you  lose  the  impression,  Roddy." 

"I — don't  think  I  quite  understand,"  said 
Roddy. 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  at  all.  Never 
mind.  Just  remember  that  neither  Pipi  nor 
the  Devil  himself  can  get  hold  of  you  unless 
you  let  him — by  Jove!" 

Movement  had  brought  him  before  the 
carved  head  with  the  necktie  bound  on  the 
forehead.  A  new  sternness  came  over  the  thin 
face  with  the  deep  eyes. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  you  don't  deserve  smack- 
ing, you  immoral  young  imp!"  he  said.  Then 
he  whipped  the  rag  off,  and  tore  it  in  half  with 
a  twist  such  as  is  used  to  wring  a  chicken's 
neck 

"Don't!"  cried  Roddy.  "Oh,  I  tried  so  hard 
to  make  it  like!  Oh,  Murray!" 

"Well,  I'll  be  hanged!"  said  Murray,  and 
took  him  by  the  shoulders.  "Do  you  want  me 
to  leave  it  there  for  the  old  brute  to  curse 
over?" 

"It's  not  yours.  This  is  yours."  Roddy 
drew  it  out  and  Murray  stared. 

"Whose  is  this,  then?" 

"Mine!    I — I  came  to  put  it  there." 


270    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Murray  was  silent  a  minute — a  long  minute. 
Then  he  said: 

"Give  it  to  me.  Now,  you  just  come  along 
home,  young  'un.  And  please  to  understand 
that  the  power  of  evil  isn't  the  greatest  power 
in  the  world.  You're  proof  positive  to  the  con- 
trary, if  you  only  knew  it." 

"But — if  Pipi  curses  you  still — if  he  gets 
something  else?"  whispered  Roddy  out  in  the 
starlight,  where  the  tussocks  of  Fighting  Hill 
muttered  round  their  feet. 

Murray  tucked  the  boy's  cold  hand  close  to 
the  warmth  of  his  own  body  and  trudged  for- 
ward. 

"Roddy,"  he  said,  "we're  all  of  us  ready  to 
remember  that  there  is  a  Devil.  Sometimes  we 
are  so  busy  remembering  it  that  we  forget  that 
there  is  a  God.  If  we  inverted  our  beliefs 
occasionally  we'd  get  along  better.  I  don't 
understand  this,  and  I  never  shall,  I  think. 
It's  sweated  a  good  deal  of  nerve  out  of  me. 
But  I've  stuck  my  toes  up  against  something 
at  last,  and  I'm  not  going  out  on  the  undertow 
any  more." 

"W-what  is  it?"  whispered  Roddy. 

"You  young  ass!"  said  Murray,  looking 
away  to  the  stars.  "Haven't  I  just  told  you?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"WELL,  dear,  it  doesn't  really  matter.  It's 
only  till  to-morrow." 

"But  it's  a  brutally  rough  place,  Effie.  I 
don't  like  your  being  here  at  afl,  little  girl." 

Randal  drew  the  flimsy  window  curtains  to- 
gether, pinned  them,  and  came  across  to  the 
horsehair  sofa. 

"We'll  shut  out  what  we  can,"  he  said.  "And 
that's  not  much,  I'm  afraid.  All  these  con- 
founded township  hotels  are  just  a  bar  and  a 
lean-to  and  a  drunken  row — 'specially  in  this 
part  of  Queensland." 

Effie  pinched  his  cheek  with  soft  fingers. 

"Let's  pretend  we  don't  hear  it.  We  used 
to  be  so  good  at  pretending.  And  now  there 
isn't  any  make-believe  left " 

"Too  much  solid  fact,  eh?"  demanded 
Randal,  dropping  on  one  knee  to  bring  his 
face  close  beside  hers  on  the  cushion. 

"Too  much  solid  happiness,"  she  said  softly. 

"You  are  sure  of  that,  Effie?  Oh,  are  you 
sure?  I  have  taken  you  away  from  so  much. 
Remember  that  there  will  be  hard  work  oq 

271 


272    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

the  station  when  we  get  out  to  it.  Hard  work 
and  loneliness.  And  there's  a  good  deal  of 
the  sinner  left  in  me  yet,  Effie.  I  have  hurt 
you  more  than  once  already.  I  shall  do  it 
again.  And  yet — you  know — I  could  kill  my- 
self for  being  such  a  brute — to  you " 

"Oh,  silly  boy!  I  am  content  with  you — 
just  as  you  are.  And — you  are  content  with 
me,  Guy?" 

"Shan't  tell  you,  little  Madame  Vanity. 
Effie,  I  think  I'll  go  out  and  see  what  those 
fellows  are  doing.  The  Chows  are  on  to  some 
poor  beggar,  I'm  afraid." 

"Guy — you'll  be  careful?  They  sound — it's 
like  angry  dogs  snarling !" 

"So  it  is!  I'll  just  go  out  and  find  what 
bone  they're  after.  It's  all  right,  dear.  I  can 
take  care  of  myself." 

The  wide,  unmade  street  was  breathless  with 
the  heat  and  the  dust  of  an  afternoon  sun.  It 
was  wild  with  sound,  and  with  the  reek  of 
spirits,  and  the  crowding  of  half -drunken  men. 
Boobyalla  had  been  a  notable  mining  township 
once.  Now  the  strong  souls  had  gone;  and 
Chinamen  and  the  riff-raff  that  they  bring  with 
them  swarmed  on  the  mullock  heaps  and  the 
wornout  claims,  and  made  the  little  township 
more  hideous  than  of  old. 

Randal  stepped  from  the  verandah  upon  a 
yellow  group  beating  tom-toms ;  swerved  from 
it,  and  asked  questions  of  a  drover  leaning 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    273 

against  the  half  door.  The  drover  spat  a 
chewed  straw  from  his  mouth  and  grinned. 

"Jes'  lookin'  roun'  fur  suthin'  ter  worry," 
he  said.  "It's  a  common  enough  caper  when 
they've  been  doin'  'emselves  pretty  well. 
P'raps  they'll  quiet  down;  p'raps  they'll  hev 
knives  goin'  direckly.  We  jes'  keeps  our  eyes 
skinned — but  it's  best  ter  light  out  ef  they  gits 
nasty." 

There  were  some  white  men  in  the  shouting 
half-maddened  crush.  Randal's  glance 
dropped  on  a  little  thin  face  under  a  big- 
brimmed  hat  hung  round  with  bobbing  corks, 
and  he  started. 

"Know  who  that  little  chap  is?"  he  de- 
manded. "The  fellow  with  the  corks  to  keep 
the  flies  off.  New  to  the  country,  eh  ?" 

"You'll  be  wearin'  them  yerself  nex'  month 
— what  chap?  No — dun't  know  his  name. 
He's  slabbin'  in  with  the  Chows.  A  rotter,  by 
the  look  o'  him." 

Randal  agreed  without  hesitation.  For  the 
little  man  was  Jimmie  Blaine. 

Jimmie  wore  union  shirting  and  dirty  cor- 
duroys. He  was  unkempt,  and  the  shifty  lines 
on  his  face  had  deepened.  Moreover,  the  side- 
long look  in  his  small  eyes  told  of  a  dogging 
fear.  He  stood  with  hands  thrust  in  his  pock- 
ets on  the  rim  of  the  crowd,  and  Randal 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You're  scum  even  of  that  lot,  my  friend 


Jimmie,"  he  murmured;  and  then  a  man 
pushed  up  from  behind,  and  caught  Jimmie 
by  the  arm. 

He  was  a  big  man,  and  the  swag  on  his  back 
had  not  bowed  him,  nor  cramped  the  free  swing 
of  his  limbs.  Something  in  the  carriage  of 
his  head  was  familiar  to  Randal.  Then  the 
face  showed  as  Jimmie  wrenched  himself 
free. 

"Ted  Douglas!"  said  Randal  in  amaze. 
"Ted  Douglas,  by  all  that's  crazy!  Ted — oh, 
you  fool!  You  silly  fool!  Did  you  think  he 
was  going  to  be  worth  the  finding?" 

For  one  moment  the  pure  joy  of  Ted's  face 
shone  in  the  sunlight.  Then  Jimmie  broke 
from  him,  screaming  in  frenzy.  Ted  sprang 
after.  And  then  words  came  to  Randal  which 
brought  him  across  the  street  to  struggle 
through  the  heated  massed  bodies. 

"Thief!"  yelled  Jimmie.  "Murderer! 
Thief!  He'll  Mil  me!  Catch  him!" 

The  howl  in  answer  put  fear  into  Randal 
for  a  breath.  The  yellow  faces  took  on  an- 
other look;  and  somewhere,  flashing  across 
Randal's  sight  came  the  glint  of  a  knife.  He 
heard  the  drover  shout  warning  from  the 
verandah,  and  he  put  his  head  down  and  beat 
his  way  toward  Ted.  Then  remembrance  of 
Effie  caught  him  and  sickened  him,  and  he 
would  have  slung  free  of  them  all  but  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  choice  left.  The  mur- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    275 

derous-working  faces  were  close,  pressing  for- 
ward; and  he  ran  with  them,  shouting: 

"Get  the  little  one!  The  little  one!  He's 
gamming  you!  He's  the  thief!" 

Despite  himself  he  chuckled  at  the  yell  that 
followed. 

"Jimmie's  going  to  pay,"  he  said.  "The 
little  devil!  He'll  pay  when  they  get  him!" 

In  the  red  of  the  low  sun  he  saw  Jimmie 
run  up  the  street.  He  saw  Ted  Douglas  burst 
out  through  the  press,  flinging  the  men  be- 
hind, and  heard  the  cry  as  of  old: 

"Jimmie!  It's  all  right!  I'll  take  care  on 
yer,  lad!  Come  back — Jimmie!" 

A  foot  tripped  Randal.  He  fell,  jagging 
his  temple  against  a  broken  boarding;  and 
when  sense  and  movement  came  back  the  quick 
twilight  had  settled  to  night,  and  the  noise 
came  fitfully,  blown  in  gusts  from  the  hotel 
bars. 

He  went  down  the  emptied  street  slowly; 
met  the  drover  at  the  corner,  and  sent  him 
back  with  word  to  Effie.  Then  he  turned  into 
the  first  hotel  and  asked  news  of  Ted  Douglas 
and  Jimmie.  Six  men  told  him,  while  the 
seventh  bound  his  forehead  skilfully.  "...  An* 
it's  well  there  weren't  more  murder  done," 
they  said.  "For  them  Chows  is  all  on  fur  a 
bun-worry  o'  sorts.  It  ain't  all  over  yet,  per- 
haps. But  the  little  one  won't  do  no  more 
interferin'." 


276    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"And  the  other?"  asked  Randal. 

"Don't  know.  He  weren't  talkin'  o'  hisself 
— yes,  they're  in  there." 

It  was  a  dirty  little  wattle-and-daub  shanty 
set  back  in  the  dust  of  a  section ;  and  the  power 
which  had  swept  the  rioters  away  from  it,  leav- 
ing it  still  and  silent  to  the  two,  was  the  Shadow 
of  Death.  Randal  went  in,  shutting  the  door 
on  the  curious  stretched  faces.  The  light  of 
a  tallow  dip  blinded  his  eyes  after  the  soft 
glow.  Then  he  walked  over  to  the  far  end  of 
the  shanty. 

There  were  two  voices  there.  One  mutter- 
ing, sobbing,  blaspheming  in  utter  terror;  the 
other  low  and  tender  and  patient.  Randal 
spoke : 

"Ted,"  he  said;  "Ted  Douglas.  It's  only 
Randal.  Are  you  hurt?" 

"Randal — oh,  Randal!  good  enough!  Tell 
Jimmie  as  I  never  come  meanin'  ter  git  him 
run  in.  Tell  him  as  he  kin  trust  me  still — 
tell  him,  Randal!" 

Randal  dropped  on  one  knee  by  the  thing 
that  moaned  and  writhed. 

"You  needn't  judge  Ted  by  yourself,  you 
little  brute,"  he  said  roughly.  "I  can  swear 
to  it  that  Ted's  never  felt  anything  but  love 
for  you — though  what  makes  him  such  a 
blamed  fool  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you." 

Jimmie's  breath  laboured  and  fluttered.  He 
twisted  weak  fingers  in  Randal's  cuff. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    277 

"He  don't  mean  it!"  he  gasped.  "He  don't! 
He's  lyin'!  Where's  a  priest  fur  ter  confess 
ter?  He'd  let  me  die  wi'out  it!  Father  Denis 
said  as  there  was  blood  on  me!"  His  voice 
thinned  and  rose,  making  Randal  thrill  with 
the  terror  of  it.  "He's  keepin'  me  here  ter 
die  an'  be  damned!  Randal- 
Randal  looked  over  at  Ted  in  the  dim  light. 

"There  ain't  a  priest  in  the  township,"  said 
Ted,  briefly.  "I  bin  askin'." 

"And  a  doctor?" 

"He's  jes'  gone.  Can't  do  nothin'.  Chest's 
crushed  in." 

There  was  a  quiver  over  the  strong  tender 
face,  and  Ted  bent  down  again. 

"  Jimmie — dear  old  lad — ef  yer'd  let  me  holt 
yer  up  a  bit,  p'raps ' 

"Let  me  be!    Let  me  be,  you !    Ah-h!" 

Then  all  the  agony  of  an  unforgiven  soul 
leapt  upon  Jimmie,  and  the  two  watched,  sick 
and  shaken  and  helpless,  save  that  Ted's  heart 
knelt  in  him  with  prayer.  A  truth  told 
Randal  long  years  back  came  to  him  sud- 
denly. 

"Jimmie,  the  rule  of  your  Church  says  that 
when  there  is  no  priest  one  man  can  confess 
to  another,  and  receive  absolution  from  him. 
That's  true,  I  know.  So  if  that  is  what  you 
are  afraid  of " 

Jimmie  lay  still,  fighting  for  breath. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  said  slowly. 


278    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 


my  soul!" 

"Then,  Randal  —  yer  knows  I  stole  that  cash 
an*  sunk  it  all  in  minin'.  An'  —  I  wanted  Ted 
killed  jes'  now  'cause  he  would  'a'  given  me  up. 
An'  tell  me  God  will  furgive  me  fur  all  that." 

There  was  blood  on  Ted's  lip  where  he  bit 
it,  and  his  strong  hands  were  working.  Even 
in  this  hour  Jimmie  had  no  forgiveness  for 
that  day  on  the  Mains  cattle  camp.  . 

Randal  was  kneeling  upright,  and  his  face 
was  dark.  There  was  nothing  in  him  but  dis- 
gust, and  a  righteous  anger.  The  heavy  press- 
ing dark  of  the  shanty  ;  the  drunken  shouts  up 
the  street,  and  the  plop-plop  of  the  guttering 
candle  flame  filled  up  the  measure  of  squalid 
dread. 

"I  —  can't,"  said  Randal,  briefly.  "Before 
God  I'd  be  lying  if  I  told  you  that  I  thought 
you  deserved  forgiveness,  Jimmie." 

Ted  stopped  with  a  little  cry,  pitiful  as  a 
mother's. 

"Jimmie  —  Jimmie,  lad.  Will  yer  take  it 
from  me?  Oh,  Jimmie,  dear  old  chap!  D'yer 
think  as  anythin'  cud  change  me,  Jimmie?" 

"Yer  can't!"  cried  Jimmie.  "Yer  dun't 
know!  I  never  run  when  Murray  tolt  me 
'bout  Buggy,  fur  I  saw  as  I  cud  get  yer  inter 
trouble.  I  knew  as  yer'd  take  it  'fore  yer 
put  it  onter  me  —  an'  yer  did.  But  I  funked 
wi'  the  boys  —  now  yer  know  —  git  out!" 

"I  knowed  that  long  ago.    I  knowed  yer'd 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    279 

not  any  love  fur  me,  now,  lad.  But  if  I  loves 
yer  jes'  the  same,  Jimmie " 

"Yer  can't!" 

"Jim,  d'yer  remember  when  we  wus  jes' 
little  chaps " 

Randal  turned  away  from  the  murmur  as 
Ted's  head  went  down  on  the  bag  pillow  be- 
side Jimmie's.  He  walked  to  the  window, 
looking  out  on  the  open  bar  across  the  street. 
It  was  foul  with  drunken  laughter  and  noise 
of  quarrelling,  and  vivid  with  the  gleam  of 
angry  white  faces  mixed  with  the  yellow.  Be- 
yond lay  God's  own  stars  on  the  peaceful  breast 
of  Heaven,  and  behind  a  soul  was  struggling 
to  bridge  the  gulf  between. 

Then  Ted  called  sharply.  Randal  came 
with  swiftness,  and  did  all  that  he  could.  But 
Jimmie's  arm  was  hooked  round  Ted's  neck, 
and  nothing  would  loose  it  until  the  end  came. 
Then  it  was  Randal  who  laid  him  back  on  the 
bags. 

"You  did  more  for  him  than  any  priest  could 
have  done,  Ted,"  he  said.  "Now  you'll  let 
me  patch  up  that  side  of  yours.  D'you  think 
I  didn't  see  blood  on  your  shirt?" 

Ted  did  not  hear.  He  went  through  all  that 
was  necessary  with  unshaking  hands.  Then  he 
stood  up. 

"It's  nothing  but  a  scratch,"  he  said.  "Good- 
night, Randal,  and  thank  yer.  I'm  goin'  ter 
stay  wi'  him." 


Randal  looked  round  the  smelling,  dirty 
shanty  where  the  nine-inch  draught  space  be- 
tween wall  and  ceiling  let  in  the  red  dust  of 
the  street,  and  he  looked  down  on  the  little 
mean  face  in  the  quivering  candle  light. 

"Don't,  Ted!"  he  said.  "We  can  lock  the 
place  up.  Come  round  to  my " 

Ted  shook  his  head. 

"He  were  always  that  nervous,"  he  said.    "I 

I'd  ruther  stay  wi'  him  ter-night.  Per'aps — 
if  I'd  done  differently  that  day  on  Black  Hill 
yards " 

"You  could  not  have  done  differently,"  said 
Randal.  "And  you  know  it.  Now  you  will 
go  back  to  Mains,  and— 

"No!"  Ted's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  still 
thing  by  his  foot.  "No!  Never  Mains  an'  the 
township  agin  wi'out  Jimmie — now.  I  loved 
him  too  dear  fur  that!" 

"Then  will  you  come  out  West  with  me?" 
said  Randal. 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  nothin'  ter- 
night,  I  think.  I'll  see  yer  ter-morrow.  If 
yer'd  jes'  go,  Randal- 
Then  Randal  went  back.  And  Effie  scolded 
him,  and  cried  and  laughed  at  the  set  of  the 
bandage  round  his  head;  and  crept  into  his 
arms  as  they  sat  in  the  little  dark  parlour 
where  the  horsehair  sofa  and  the  dust  made 
by  the  white  ants  did  not  show  in  the  light  that 
was  given  by  the  wide  stars  only. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    281 

"Who  was  it  spoke  of  the  'Wine  of  Life'?" 
she  said.  "Do  you  think  he  meant  love,  Guy?" 

"I  know  he  did,"  said  Randal.  Then  he  held 
her  closely.  "Effie— Erne— I  thought  that  our 
love  was  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world.  But 
it  isn't!  It  isn't!  I've  seen  a  greater  to-night, 
little  girl.  It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  and — very 
terrible,  dear." 

She  pulled  down  his  face  and  kissed  him. 

"All  love  is  beautiful  and  terrible,"  she  said. 
"But  we  have  worked  out  the  terrible  part  of 
ours,  Guy." 

And  Randal's  lips  met  hers  for  answer. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BLAKE'S  hotel  was  upside  down  and  inside 
out.  For  all  the  boys  from  Mains  and  from 
Behar  were  down  to  do  honour  to  Danny's 
wedding:  and  up  and  along  the  passages;  in 
the  kitchen  and  the  bar,  violins  were  tuning  and 
stray  voices  whistling  the  "Bride's  March." 
On  the  side-path  a  dozen  beat  step,  with  gusts 
of  talk  and  laughter  blown  out  with  the  to- 
bacco wreaths. 

Moody  sat  on  the  horse  trough,  dabbing  his 
forehead  with  a  red  handkerchief.  For  the 
tenth  time  he  had  dragged  Tod  over  the  Town 
Hall  floor  on  a  sack,  and,  by  Tod's  sworn  word, 
"There  was  not  a  bhoy  in  Argyle  wud  stand  up 
on  ut  the  night,  wid  the  shine  of  ut." 

"On'y  Dennis,"  said  Ike,  strong  in  the  pride 
of  his  new  black  flannel  shirt  and  a  white  tie. 
"He's  havin'  ter  dance  in  socks,  yer  knows." 

Dennis  was  Danny's  elder  brother,  and  un- 
married, and  the  punishment  thereof  was  an 
ancient  law  in  the  township. 

"Sure,  then,  who  wud  be  lookin'  at  Dinnis 
the  night?"  cried  Tod.  "An'  here  comes  hersilf 

282 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    283 

wid  the  gossoon!  Will  ye  stand  by  wid  the 
rice,  then?" 

Rice  had  lain  thick  from  the  church  gates 
to  the  hotel  door  these  four  hours  past.  But 
the  boys'  pockets  bulged  with  it  yet;  and  their 
fists  were  shut  on  it,  and  the  air  sung  with  the 
grains  as  a  girl  ran  out,  flinging  up  a  white 
muslin  arm  as  shield.  Lou  followed,  with  his 
light  gay  laughter. 

"Hit  the  wrong  nail  this  time,  you  chaps," 
he  cried.  "Danny  and  Suse  have  gone  out  the 
back  way.  Come  on,  Maiden!" 

In  the  light  from  the  bar  Maiden's  delicate 
face  was  flushed  above  the  snow-white  of  her 
dress.  She  stood  an  instant,  half  hesitating 
among  the  men;  her  soft  hair  turned  to  gold 
about  her  head,  and  her  hand  clinging  to  Lou's. 
Excitement  was  throbbing  in  the  very  air  of 
the  township,  and  something  in  her  wild-rose 
beauty  tingled  the  men.  Then  Mogger  lit  the 
spark : 

"Three  cheers  fur  the  nex*  bride!"  he 
shouted. 

The  roar  startled  Danny  and  Suse  where 
they  hurried  by  a  little  side  street  to  the  Town 
Hall,  and  Lou  swung  off  his  cap  with  daring 
assurance. 

"Thank  you,  boys!"  he  cried.  "Make  way 
there!  Maiden,  here's  your  shawl." 

He  flung  a  soft  white  thing  over  her  hair, 
and  the  blank  dark  beyond  the  dazzle  of  light 


284    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

took  them.  Tod  rubbed  the  grains  of  rice 
from  his  damp  hands. 

"Begorra,  bhoys,  we'd  betther  be  movin'," 
he  said.  "Wud  ye  let  Lou  be  havin'  it  all  tu 
himsilf  down  there?" 

Steve  followed  slowly  in  the  wake  of  eager 
feet.  Four  hours  agone  he  had  stood  up  in 
the  church  very  near  to  Maiden  and  had  heard 
the  great  words  whereby  Danny  and  Suse  had 
pledged  themselves.  But  he  had  looked  at 
none  but  Maiden,  so  that  Danny  might  be 
forgiven  for  calling  him  a  "silly  rotter"  when 
he  forgot  to  hand  over  the  ring,  and  finally 
dropped  it  under  the  front  seat  where  Lou 
sat.  Lou  had  picked  it  up,  with  a  little  sug- 
gestive movement,  and  his  bold  eyes  full  on 
Maiden's.  And  Maiden  had  grown  red  and 
white,  and  spoken  no  word  at  all  to  Steve  when 
he  took  her  out  of  the  church,  trying  to  tell 
her  that  he  envied,  not  Danny,  but  Danny's 
state,  and  so  mixing  himself  that  Maiden's 
wicked  laughter  called  up  Lou.  It  was  since 
that  moment  that  Steve  had  been  giddy  with 
fear  and  hate.  For  over-well  he  knew  Lou 
Birot. 

There  were  cut  cabbage  trees  about  the 
Town  Hall,  and  tall  sweet-scented  koradis, 
and  little  dark  corners  where  Tod  had  planted 
chairs.  Tod  was  M.C. ;  and  there  were  three 
violins  and  an  accordeon  and  a  long  tableful  of 
supper  on  the  platform.  Danny  was  utterly 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    285 

delirious  with  glee;  and  when  he  kissed  the 
bridesmaid  in  the  quadrilles  it  was  Lou  called 
shame  on  Steve  that  he  had  foregone  his  right 
with  Suse.  Steve  hung  glowering  in  a  corner, 
and  the  Packer  cried: 

"Do  it  yerself,  Lou,  yer  beggar!" 

Lou's  bold  glancing  eyes  met  Maiden's. 

"The  next  best  thing,  Maiden,"  he  said  un- 
derbreath;  and  kissed  Suse  on  both  hard  red 
cheeks,  slid  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
whirled  her  down  the  room. 

Steve  came  across  to  Maiden. 

"Are  you  sparin'  any  dances  ter-night, 
Maiden?"  he  said  shortly. 

The  crimson  Lou's  words  had  called 
there  left  Maiden's  face.  She  flung  up  her 
head. 

"You've  been  in  sech  a  mighty  hurry  to  ask 
me,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  ain't.  I  near  didn't  ask  yer  at  all. 
But  yer'll  spare  me  one  now,  Maiden,  fur  I've 
suthin'  ter  say  ter  yer?" 

Maiden  turned  on  her  heel. 

"Thanks !    I  don't  want  ter  hear  it,"  she  said. 

"Would  yer  ruther  I  said  it  ter  Lou?" 

Maiden  glanced  at  him  in  sudden  fear;  at 
his  broad  honest  face  set  now  in  a  savageness 
that  Lou  had  seen  there  before;  at  his  great 
height  and  solid  breadth  as  against  Lou's  lithe 
gracefulness.  She  shivered  a  little.  Then  she 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 


286    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"You  can  have  this,"  she  said.  "It's  Ike's, 
but  he  don't  count." 

Steve  pushed  open  a  side-door  with  his  el- 
bow. 

"It's  hot  'miff  out  here,"  he  said.  "No- 
there  ain't  any  dew  on  the  grass.  Come  down 
ter  the  gate,  Maiden." 

Maiden  stepped  beside  him,  holding  her  mus- 
lin dress  daintily.  The  rollicking  music  behind 
unsteadied  Steve's  nerves.  There  was  a  lilt 
of  defiance  in  it  that  brought  Lou's  laughter 
very  near.  He  gripped  his  hand  on  the  gate. 

"Are  yer  thinkin'  o'  marryin'  Lou?"  he  de- 
manded suddenly. 

Maiden  brushed  a  twig  from  her  skirt. 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  tell  me  something," 
she  suggested.  "Don't  yer  think  yer  ideas  is 
a  bit  upside  down,  Steve?" 

"I'd  ruther  not  tell  yer  till  I  knows  that." 

"Well,"  said  Maiden,  lightly,  "you're  not 
goin'  to  know  that.  Anything  else?" 

"If  yer  sends  me  ter  him,  Maiden " 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"I'll  git  the  truth  outen  him."  Steve's  voice 
had  a  rasp  in  it  now. 

"And  what  good  will  that  do  you?" 

The  distant  curve  of  tussock  hills  against 
the  stars  blurred  in  Steve's  sight. 

"D'yer  think  I'm  carin'  fur  myself?"  he  said 
fiercely.  "If  Lou  were  another  man  I'd  say 
nothin'.  But  him  bein'  what  he  is — Maiden! 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    287 

Maiden!  yer  don't  know  him,  dearie.  Not  as 
I  knows  him!" 

"Likely  'nuff .  You're  a  bit  clumsy  at  know- 
in'  anybody." 

"If  you're  carin'  fur  Lou "  Steve 

stopped,  cutting  his  nails  into  the  gate  top. 

"Well?" 

"Maiden— if  yer'd  tell  me !  Oh,  if  yer'd  only 
tell  me  I  Maiden " 

Maiden  yawned  deliberately. 

"Must  be  'bout  eleven,  I  should  think,"  she 
said.  "We've  bin  out  here  an  hour,  haven't 
we?  Lou  was  goin'  to  take  me  in  to  supper." 

"Maiden — if  yer  expectin'  Lou  ter  marry 
yer — he  never  will.  He'll  like  as  not  be  clearin* 
out  any  day  at  all." 

Maiden  drew  up  her  slim  throat,  and  her 
words  came  iced: 

"I  don't  remember  givin*  you  the  right  ter 
be  impertinent  to  me,  Steve  Derral,"  she  said. 

"I  ain't  askin'  no  right.  I'm  jes'  warnin* 
yer " 

"I've  heard  folks  say  as  yer  ain't  always 
clever  wi'  the  words  you  use.  Insultin'  is  more 
like  it,  I  think." 

"He'll  insult  yer  worse  ef  you're  engaged 
ter  him  'fore  he  goes.  Maiden — yer  got  ter 
listen " 

"Lou!  Lou!  Come!" 

A  dark  bulk  by  the  steps  moved  suddenly. 
Then  Lou's  voice  was  in  Steve's  ear: 


288    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Hands  off  there,  will  you?" 

Steve  did  not  loose  his  hold  on  her  arm. 

"I'm  not  takin'  orders  from  you,"  he  said. 
"Maiden,  it's  your  choice,  now.  Are  yer  chuck- 
in'  him  or  me,  Maiden?" 

His  voice  was  rough  with  pain,  and  all  the 
love  that  would  ever  be  his  was  in  his  eyes. 
Maiden  looked  on  the  two  in  the  moonlight. 
Then  she  laughed. 

"I'm  goin'  into  the  dressin'-room  to  tidy  my 
hair.  So  I  don't  want  either  of  yer.  Let  go, 
Steve!  P'raps  that's  my  choice,  and  p'raps  it 
isn't." 

Steve  turned  on  the  man  when  she  had  left 
them. 

'Twouldn't  mean  much  ter  me  ter  be  hung 
s'posin'  yer  was  thinkin'  o'  breakin'  her  heart," 
he  said.  "Yer'd  be  wise  ter  remember  that. 
Fur,  sure's  death,  I'll  never  let  her  marry  yer, 
an'  me  livin'." 

Lou's  hands  were  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets, 
and  there  was  a  slow  smile  on  his  mouth. 

"I  don't  fancy  you're  going  to  have  much 
say  in  the  matter,  if  you  ask  me,"  he  said.  "I've 
got  her  name  down  four  times  more  to-night. 
Can  you  beat  that?" 

Steve's  programme  was  a  bit  of  blank  white 
paper.  He  tore  it  in  half  and  flung  it  on  the 
gravel. 

"I  ain't  goin'  ter  say  anythin'  more  ter  her." 
He  paid  out  his  words  separately.  "It's  you 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    289 

ter  reckon  wi'  nex'  time.  An'  yer'd  best  jes' 
remember — she  means  a  lump  more  ter  me 
than  my  life." 

He  went  out  of  the  gate  abruptly  and  up  the 
street,  meeting  with  Murray  and  Father  Denis 
at  the  corner.     Murray  called  gaily: 
"Going  for  the  kerosene-tins,  Steve?" 
"We  got  'em,"  said  Steve,  halting.     "Fif- 
teen, an'  heavy  sticks.     It's  goin'  ter  be  the 
biggest  tin-kettlin'  in  the  township;  both  par- 
ties being  sech  fav'rits,  yer  see." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  have  to  run  any  of 
you  in  if  I  can  help  it— 

"Bhut  there  is  his  duty  comes  furrst,  he  wud 
say,  bhoy — what  is  it,  Ormond?" 

Ormond  was  breathless.  He  had  a  coat  over 
his  pyjamas,  and  unlaced  boots  on  his  bare 
feet:  for  he  had  come  at  the  run  from  his  bed 
in  the  little  tin  hut  behind  the  Lion  that  had 
proven  too  strong  for  his  wrath  against  Kiliat. 
He  was  white-faced  in  the  moonlight,  and  his 
words  were  tumbled. 

"Roddy   has   shot   Art    Scannell.      Kiliat 
sacked  him  last  week,  and  he's  been  swearing 
to  pay  Kiliat  out.    I  saw  him  with  a  gun  this 
morning.    He  nicked  the  wrong  man — I  found 
him  crying  over  Art.     And  now  he's  off  after 
Kiliat.     I  tried  to  get  him,  Murray- 
Murray's  clean-shaped  ruddy  face  was  sud- 
denly drawn. 
"Is  Art  dead?" 


290    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"Think  so;  pretty  far  gone,  anyway.  But 
Murray — if  he  finds  Kiliat " 

"Steve,  you  hop  down  to  the  hall  and  rope 
in  a  few  fellows.  Don't  spread  an  alarm. 
Where  was  he  going,  Ormond?" 

"Kiliat  is  up  at  Scannell's  to-night.  Roddy 
was  taking  a  short  cut  through  the  bush 

"Come  and  get  into  some  of  my  duds  while 
I  rake  out  a  couple  of  shooters.  Father  Denis, 
you'll  take  somebody  up  to  Art.  He  is — 
where,  Ormond?  Oh,  in  Ormond's  hut,  Father 
Denis." 

In  Murray's  room  Ormond  spoke  with  some 
hesitation : 

"It's  tough  work  for  you,  Murray,  old  fel- 
low." 

Murray  was  loading  his  revolvers  with  quick 
firm  movements. 

"That  little  chap  faced  what  he  feared  more 
than  death  to  save  me.  And  I've  got  to  bring 
him  to  the  gallows,  perhaps.  Pipi's  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  in  some  way,  Ormond.  Roddy  has 
never  been  the  same  since  that  foolery." 

"You've  got  over  it." 

Murray  buckled  his  belt,  and  wheeled  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

"He  may  be  paying  instead  of  me,"  he  said, 
very  low.  "I  don't  know.  Come  on,  Ormond." 

Where  a  crowd  foregathered  in  the  dark 
street  Murray  took  command,  leading  out  to 
the  river  track  and  the  heavy  bush  on  the  hills. 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    291 

Behind  was  music  and  the  blushing  laughter 
of  girls,  and  a  new-made  bride;  before  lay 
death  for  themselves  from  an  unseen  bullet,  or 
death  for  the  boy  who  was  already  a  murderer. 

Not  Maiden  nor  another  woman  could  hold 
Lou  when  danger  beckoned.  Murray  heard 
his  careless  jokes,  and  the  sputter  of  laughter 
waked  by  them  in  the  night,  and  his  forehead 
went  hot  with  sudden  wrath. 

"He's  the  only  one  going  for  the  fun  of  it," 
he  muttered  to  Ormond.  "And,  by  Heaven  I 
if  he  hurts  the  poor  little  beggar  I'll  put  a  bul- 
let into  him  myself."  Then  he  sent  his  voice 
out  in  command:  "There's  to  be  no  rough 
handling!  Remember  that,  men!  The  boy's 
off  his  head,  and  I  won't  have  him  messed 
with." 

There  was  a  growl  out  of  the  dark. 

"That's  all  very  fine,  Murray.  How  if  'e 
goes  plunkin'  lead  inter  us,  eh?" 

On  the  breast  of  the  hill  the  bush  was  heavy, 
and  vines  tripped  them,  slashing  faces  with 
their  thorns,  or  whipping  back  with  the  smart- 
ing sting  of  a  supple-jack.  The  track  Roddy 
had  taken  lay  higher,  among  the  delicate  red 
birches  and  the  straight-limbed  matais ;  and  the 
men  climbed  for  it  in  haste,  for  they  loved 
Scannell  well,  and  more  than  one  life  was  in 
danger  this  night. 

The  underway  was  rotten  with  long-fallen 
boles  where  the  golden  and  scarlet  mosses 


292     THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

grew.  It  was  bogged  by  springs  hidden  in 
ferns  and  in  the  little  purple  and  red  berries 
that  spurt  out  their  juices  to  the  tread.  Once 
a  weka  ran  with  a  cry  before  the  toe  of 
Ike's  boot;  but,  for  the  rest,  in  all  the  mighty 
length  and  height  of  the  bush  was  no 
sound  save  the  crashing  of  men  through  the 
branches. 

"It's  hot  'miff  fur  another  place  'sides  this," 
said  Mogger,  wiping  green  slime  from  his  eye- 
brows; "an'  dark  'nuff  fur  ter  lose  anybody  yer 
didn't  want  ter  fin'  agin,  too.  There's  some 
folk  one  cud  do  wi'  losin' — ef  yer  cud  do  it 
wi'out  hurtin'  their  feelin's." 

"It's  never  wise  to  think  of  another  man's 
feelings,"  said  Lou,  beating  the  lawyer  tangle 
aside.  "You  get  underfoot  each  time  you  do 
it — and  that  is  where  the  heat  is  bred, 
Mogger." 

Through  the  bush-thickness  he  burst  on  to 
the  track;  and  the  others  following  saw  him 
struck  out  in  scarlet,  like  the  demon  in  a  panto- 
mime. Below  in  the  gully  of  pine  and  tree 
fern,  a  welter  of  flame  gallopped  up  to  snatch 
at  the  way  that  led  to  Mains,  and  red  tongues 
lapped  the  undergrowth,  licking  round  the 
great  trunks  that  barred  them.  The  splash  of 
raw  scarlet  was  over  the  men  with  their  startled 
faces;  over  the  low  sky  behind  the  far  hill; 
over  the  wild  tracery  of  giant  trees  along  the 
gully-rim.  The  snarl  of  it  was  in  the  air;  fill- 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    293 

ing  the  night  with  the  clashing  of  falling 
branches,  and  the  spitting  of  little  springs,  and 
the  howl  of  the  tall  boles  as  they  pitched  down- 
hill where  the  flames  rioted.  Flakes  of  fire 
blew  up,  settling  softly  in  the  darkness  about 
the  boys,  and  searing  out  the  beauty  of  fern 
and  creeper  before  they  died. 

A  smother  of  smoke  came  on  a  sudden; 
black,  choking  and  acrid.  Murray  buttoned 
his  coat  and  turned  his  collar  up. 

"I'm  only  taking  volunteers,"  he  said,  "for 
we'll  have  to  run  for  it.  Who  is  coming?" 

Tod  was  fighting  the  blackness  that  stank 
of  burning  leaves  and  rottenness. 

"Whisht,  then!"  he  shouted.  "Wud  ye  have 
us  ahl  tu  Purgatory  befure  our  toime,  Murray? 
There's  a  way  back,  yet,  glory  be!" 

"And  there's  Roddy  ahead  with  a  loaded 
rifle,"  said  Murray.  "Are  you  going  to  let 
him  get  to  Mains  first?  He's  taking  death  for 
someone  with  him,  by  all  accounts." 

He  tucked  in  his  elbows,  put  his  head  down, 
and  disappeared  in  the  smoke.  Ormond  ran 
with  him,  step  for  step.  Since  the  night  in 
Pipi's  hut,  Roddy  had  been  rather  dear  to 
Murray,  and  Ormond  knew  it,  fearing  what 
might  be  when  Murray  faced  the  boy  next. 

"He — may  not  do  any  harm,  Murray,"  he 
gasped. 

"But  he  will,"  said  Murray.  "You  know  it 
— unless  we're  there  first.  And  I'd  give  ten 


294    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

years  of  my  life  to  be  on  any  other  errand  than 
this,  Ormond." 

Ormond  made  no  answer.  For  the  smoke 
was  tart  on  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips,  and  his 
breath  came  uneven  and  laboured.  Behind  the 
boys  fought,  each  according  to  his  kind ;  chok- 
ing, blackened,  sweating;  with  curses;  with 
Lou's  light  jokes,  poison- tipped,  to  gall  them; 
with  light  lips  and  staggering  unconquered 
strength.  The  flames  were  very  near.  They 
singed  away  Lou's  shirt  sleeve  and  the  hair 
of  his  arm.  He  ripped  the  burning  thing 
off  and  ran  on. 

A  shout  from  Murray  blew  back  to  them, 
and  Steve  interpreted  it. 

"He's  sighted  Roddy.  Put  yer  back  inter 
it,  yer  wasters.  We'll  nab  him  yet." 

The  smoke  whirled  up  into  a  solid  column 
that  rammed  the  sky  and  seemed  to  split  it. 
The  whole  lurid  world  beneath  was  struck  out 
in  reds;  and  Roddy  ran  down  the  narrow 
cleared  track  with  the  semblance  of  blood  on 
his  face  and  hands.  Murray  leapt  after,  with 
long  strides.  And  Ormond  alone  saw  the  pain 
in  his  set  grimed  face. 

The  fire  clawed  at  the  track  with  long  thin 
fingers;  shrivelled,  then  clawed  again.  The 
sweat  ran  thick  off  each  man,  and  ahead  Roddy 
was  reeling.  Murray  heard  the  breath  pump- 
ing in  his  chest  as  he  closed  up. 

"Roddy!"  he  shouted.    "Roddy!    Stop!" 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    295 

Roddy  wheeled  suddenly,  and  the  spit  of  a 
bullet  past  Megger's  cheek  made  him  pause  a 
moment  to  consider  things.  Lou  chuckled,  and 
Steve  saw  the  reckless  glee  of  his  face. 

"Shall  we  rush  the  young  devil,  Murray?" 
he  shouted. 

"No!  Hands  up,  Roddy!  You  haven't  a 
hope,  you  know!" 

Roddy's  hands  moved  over  the  stock  un- 
certainly. His  clothes  were  torn,  and  his 
young  face  was  smudged  with  sweat  and 
grime,  and  scored  with  lines  that  were  new. 

"Are  you — goin'  to  hurt  me,  Murray?"  he 
said  hoarsely. 

For  an  instant  Murray's  strong  face  quiv- 
ered. Then  his  will  took  command. 

"Very  probably — if  you  don't  sling  that 
thing  down,  Roddy." 

His  finger  crooked  on  the  revolver  trigger; 
but  the  rifle  mouth  covered  him. 

"Lie  down  behind  there!"  he  shouted. 
"Now,  Roddy!" 

"I  killed  Art  Scannell,"  said  Roddy,  paying 
out  his  words  separately.  "They  will  do  some- 
thing to  me  for  that,  won't  they?  Murray, 
will  I  swing  for  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  Hands  up,  when  I  tell 
you!" 

"Murray,  you  wouldn't  come  arter  me  if  I 
was  to  swing?  I — I  didn't  mean  it." 

Ormond  was  biting  his  lips.    His  heart  was 


296    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

very  sore  for  Murray;  but  he  did  not  forget 
Art  Scannell,  limp  as  a  new-killed  chicken,  in 
his  arms. 

"Hands  up,  or  I'll  shoot  you,  Roddy 
Duncan!" 

Then  Roddy's  answer  came  in  a  right  and 
left  that  sent  the  boys  to  cover  where  the 
smoke  bellied  and  the  young  flames  were 
waking.  Tod  made  just  one  remark. 

"Be  ahl  things,"  he  said,  "I'll  not  be  takin' 
no  penances  from  Father  Denis  this  good  while 
at  ahl.  Sure,  they're  comin'  now  tu  the  lot  of 
us  in  a  lump." 

Ormond  heard  Murray's  revolver  crack  in 
the  new-come  smarting  dark;  and  he  sprang 
with  Murray  to  kneel  on  the  thing  that  fought 
and  bit  and  scratched,  unseen. 

Murray  was  sobbing  in  his  throat. 

"His  shoulder!"  he  said.  "Be  careful,  Or- 
mond! I  had  to  get  him  there.  Roddy — it's 
all  right,  old  fellow." 

"Are  they  goin'  ter  hurt  me?  Murray- 
Murray!  you're  not  goin'  ter  let  them  hurt 
me?" 

Ormond,  reaching  for  the  fallen  rifle,  saw 
Murray  stoop  and  kiss  the  piteous  stammering 
lips.  And  it  was  not  smoke  alone  that  smarted 
in  his  eyes  as  he  came  to  his  feet. 

"Come  on,  you  there!"  he  shouted.  "Who'll 
help  carry  the  boy  out  of  this?" 

A  hot  blast  poured  over  the  track;  with 


THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD    297 

flame  in  it,  and  raging  smoke,  and  the  roar  of 
a  falling  tree.  It  silenced  all  other  sound  as 
half  the  boys  swept  forward  down  the  road 
to  Mains.  Steve  and  Tod  were  halted  by  the 
tree  and  the  man  who  was  caught  beneath  it, 
and  Ike  fled  after  his  mates  with  a  face  of  pure 
wordless  horror. 

Little  flames  licked  Steve's  boot,  and  a  puff 
of  scorching  air  touched  his  cheek.  He  stood 
unmoving,  while  Tod,  on  his  knees,  tore  at  the 
branches  in  haste. 

"Lou!  Arrah,  then,  Lou!  git  away  out  ov 
that,  befure  the  fire  has  us  aiten  up  entoirely! 
Lou!  Is  it  dead  ye  are  down  there?" 

Lou  was  pinned  by  the  middle.  He  beat  his 
arms  free,  and  the  gay  grin  flashed  in  the  blue 
eyes,  crushing  down  the  mortal  pain. 

"Go  an'  chuck  the  earth  out  of  its  axis  with 
a  crowbar,  Tod,"  he  said.  "For  you'll  do  it 
before  I'm  out  of  this." 

The  tree  was  skeleton-white  in  a  death  of 
long  years.  But  no  power  save  that  of  the  fire 
would  move  it  where  it  lay  athwart  the  track. 
Steve  came  to  his  knees. 

"Tell  us  what  ter  do,"  he  said  stupidly. 
"We  got  ter  git  yer  out,  or  the  fire'll  have  us 
all,  Lou." 

A  whirl-devil  of  fire  spun  along  the  tree, 
snatching  at  Lou's  hair,  and  dropping  sparks 
on  his  face.  Tod  swept  them  off,  his  light  eyes 
wild  with  fear. 


298    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

"We'll  pull  ye,"  he  cried.  "Whisht,  then, 
bhoy — git  a  howld  of  him,  Steve!" 

He  wrenched  the  shoulders,  and  Lou  struck 
at  him,  cursing: 

"Don't,  you !    Let  me  alone!    Ah-h!" 

The  sweat  ran  down  his  face,  and  Steve  re- 
peated, in  a  daze: 

"Tell  us  what  ter  do.    The  fire's  comin'." 

The  fire  was  on  them;  mocking,  leaping, 
flinging  cords  of  burning  vine;  and  its  shout- 
ing  filled  the  night.  Lou  gripped  Tod's  sleeve. 

"Have  you  got  a  knife?"  he  said.  "Or  a  bit 
of  cord?  Put  an  end  to  me  somehow!  Don't 
leave  me  to  be  roasted  alive!" 

Tod  shuddered  down  on  the  ground,  stut- 
tering. 

"Ochone!  Mary  be  good  to  us!  Say  yer 
prayers,  then,  Lou,  for  it's  the  hand  of  God 
howldin'  ye,  an'  no  other." 

"Stop  that  blasted  rot,"  said  Lou,  fiercely. 
"Haven't  you  got  anything?  Steve " 

His  blue  eyes  were  hard  and  bright  and  his 
voice  grated.  Under  the  smoke  that  all  but 
smothered,  Tod  crept  away,  crazy  with  horror, 
and  muttering  prayers  without  end  or  begin- 
ning. Steve  crushed  out  some  burning  leaves 
with  his  arm,  and  stooped  lower. 

"If  I  cud  do  anything — Lou;  because  as 
Maiden  loved  yer " 

Then  Lou  cursed  him,  in  a  fury  of  passion 
and  pain.  But  there  was  no  fear. 


"Where's  your  knife?  Your  clasp-knife? 
You  had  it,  I  know!  Give  it  here,  then,  if 
you've  not  got  the  mercy  to  help  me  out  your- 
self. Give  it  here!" 

"Lou— I— I  couldn't!    Oh— God- 
Lou  tried  to  raise  himself;  fell  back  with 
oaths  in  his  mouth,  and  twisted  his  liand  in 
Steve's  trousers. 

"You'll  burn  too  if  you  won't  give  it  up. 
Steve — you  devil!" 

Steve  dragged  his  belt  round  and  jerked 
the  knife  out.  He  thrust  it  into  the  eager  hand 
as  a  blast  of  flame  struck  his  face,  blinding 
him,  scorching  hair  from  eyebrows  and  eyelids, 
and  sending  him,  stupid  and  staggering,  down 
the  track  before  the  fire. 

He  found  sense  only  by  the  post  and  rail 
fence  that  led  by  way  of  a  creek  to  Mains.  Be- 
hind the  fire  raged  and  tossed  great  arms, 
crossing  the  hill  to  North-of- Sunday.  Before 
lay  the  peace  of  the  night,  and  Mains  home- 
stead in  the  hollow.  He  stumbled  down  to  the 
whares  that  were  full  of  light  and  noise.  In 
the  door  someone  stopped  him,  exclaiming. 
Steve  looked  down  at  his  boots,  yet  dazed.  A 
spurt  of  half-dried  blood  crossed  them  both. 

"Lou  were  quick,"  he  said.    "D quick!" 

Then  he  staggered  to  the  long  table,  laid  his 
head  on  it  and  cried  helplessly. 

An  hour  later  he  was  back  in  the  township 
with  Murray,  knocking  on  the  side  door  of  the 


300    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

Hall  and  sending  the  gaping  boy  who  came, 
for  Maiden. 

"An'  you'll  not  tell  her  nuthin',"  commanded 
Steve,  standing  gaunt  and  ragged  without  the 
light  shaft.  "Jes'  ask  her  ter  come  a  minit. 
Yer  hear?" 

The  boy  fled,  and  Murray  spoke  under  the 
throb  of  the  music : 

"Plunk  it  straight,  Steve.  Let  her  know 
that  you  love  her.  It'll  be  all  right,  man." 

"You  think  everything's  all  right  'cause 
young  Art  ain't  dead,"  said  Steve  bitterly.  "I 
got  ter  tell  her  'cause  I  seed  him  last.  An' — 
what  will  she  say  ter  me?" 

Murray  went  away  swiftly  as  Maiden  came 
out  to  say  it.  The  flowers  on  her  white  dress 
were  crushed;  but  the  brightness  was  on  her 
cheeks  yet,  and  in  her  eyes.  Steve  spoke  out 
of  the  dark,  sick  at  remembering  all  that  had 
gone  by  in  the  few  hours  since  he  saw  her  last. 

"There's  bin  a  big  fire,"  he  said;  "a  big  fire. 
I  corned  back — we  ain't  all  on  us  corned  back, 
Maiden." 

Maiden  had  stood  in  the  door,  panting,  the 
smile  yet  on  her  lips.  At  his  voice  she  moved 
suddenly,  her  hands  shut  close  on  each 
other. 

"Steve — you're  hurt!  Steve,  what  are  you 
speakin'  that  way  fur?  Steve — 

"I'm  bringin'  yer  bad  news,  Maiden,"  said 
gteve,  slowly. 


He  came  forward  into  the  light.  His  shirt 
was  torn  and  charred  and  one  singed  arm  lay 
naked  to  the  shoulder.  His  face  was  white  and 
drawn  under  the  grime  and  the  smudged 
smoke,  and  trouble  showed  deep  in  his  eyes. 

"I — couldn't  help  it,  my  girlie,"  he  said. 
"Maiden— I  did  what  I  could." 

"Steve — oh,  what  is  it?  Yer  not  hurt — bad? 
Steve!  Tell  me!" 

"He  weren't  fit  fur  yer,  Maiden.  But  he 
were  game.  Ter  the  very  last  he  were  game, 
dear.  He — oh,  why  was  I  sech  a  blamed  fool 
as  ter  think  I  could  tell  yer!  I  can't!  I 
can't!" 

Maiden  sprang  to  him,  holding  him  about 
the  neck  and  never  heeding  his  tattered  shirt 
against  her  whiteness. 

"Steve!  You  never  killed  no  one!  Ah! 
Not  that!  Not  that,  Steve!" 

"Killed  him!  No,  dearie!  But— he's  dead. 
Lou's  dead,  Maiden.  He  died  game.  I  near 
died  with  him." 

She  leant  back  from  him,  her  lips  quivering 
between  laughter  and  tears. 

"And  if  you  had  I'd  have  never  forgiven 
you,  Steve.  Steve,  you  silly  boy!  When  you 
knew  there  was  never  anyone  else  but  only 
you — only  you!" 

"Maiden!    You  never  tolt  me— 

"You  never  asked  me,  you  mean,"  she  said. 

Steve  took  her  up  in  his  great  arms,  and  in 


302    THE  TRACKS  WE  TREAD 

that  moment  the  dead  man  out  on  the  ranges 
was  forgotten. 

"Well;  ef  I  ain't  bin  a  d idjit!"  he  said 

solemnly. 


FINIS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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